


The Voldemort Connection

by Noxifer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Little To No Character Bashing, M/M, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Morally Grey Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Precocious Harry Potter, Protective McGonagall, Slightly Exaggerated Dursley Abuse, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:46:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 123,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxifer/pseuds/Noxifer
Summary: Ever since Harry was little, he's had recurring dreams of being with someone else, someone who's little more than a ghost. After doing some reading on it in the school library, he'd decided it was his version of having an invisible friend. Except as he turns eleven, it turns out his dreams are closer to reality than he'd ever thought. What happens when he meets his dream companion, for so many years his only friend, for the first time in the waking world?





	1. Dreams and Portents

_…in which Harry makes a new friend, gets mail for the first time, and uses magic on purpose._

 

The dreams had been there for as long as he could remember. They were the one constant, aside from the Dursleys’ disgust and hatred of him, that he could always count on. In the very beginning, he’d attempted to talk about them. He’d quickly been disillusioned. His aunt and uncle simply didn’t care to listen to him, and if he didn’t shut up before being told to do so there were sharp pinches and hard fingers gripping his arms. If _that_ didn’t shut him up, well… Then there was worse.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure what to think of them. On the one hand, they were frightening. To be incorporeal—though he didn’t learn that term for it for _years_ —and all but unable to influence the world around him. To be always on the move, either running from someone or something or searching for something he could never find. To always worry and fear that _this_ , this existence was everything he would ever know.

On the other hand they were… safe. The being whose identity he always took was as familiar to him as his daytime persona was, and as the months and years passed they developed a sort of bond between them. To some degree, it even felt as though there were two of them. Harry and the Being. Later on, of course, when he was eight or thereabouts, he’d learned that it was simply his subconscious shaping his dreams into what he needed them to be. Lucid dreaming, of a sort. But even then he allowed himself to believe it, to trust in the Being. To trust that it was a separate entity and yet the same as him, to share brief conversations that were less about words and more about images and emotions. To believe that the Being had a life of its own, that it maybe even dreamed of _his_ life when Harry wasn’t there with it.

He knew, as he slowly approached his eleventh birthday—not that the first ten had ever been celebrated—that he should let go of those dreams. That the Being in effect was just an imaginary friend, that it wasn’t normal to hang on to such things. There was no room for him at Privet Drive to be a child, so why shouldn’t he let go of the last vestige of his childhood?

Except there was no room for him at Privet Drive to be a child, so he desperately _wanted_ to keep that last remnant of childhood, even if it was an unhealthy one. Besides, he reasoned, there were far unhealthier thoughts he could entertain, far unhealthier things to do, and the Being helped him deal with the daily treatment from his relatives. So he eagerly dove into his dream world every time his chore filled days ended, greeted his other half, his dream friend, his parent and child and protector and ward, with relief and joy that it was still there.

But lately the dreams had changed, just slightly. There was a forest, as there had been for the past weeks, but then one night they weren’t alone. There was a man there, far more pale than the moonlight should warrant. He wasn’t too old either; Harry wasn’t good at guessing people’s ages, but he’d wager the man wasn’t even thirty. Far more slender than Harry’s uncle, but that wasn’t too difficult to be.

“I knew you were here,” the man said, his hand trembling slightly as he pointed a stick at them. The words echoed oddly, slightly distorted in the dreamscape. It felt strange to hear someone speak, as Harry and the Being had always communicated more through images and flashes of emotions. “I knew you weren’t gone.” There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. _Greed_ , the Being recognised. _Greed and triumph._ And those were emotions they could utilise.

A silent request passed between them. This was the chance the Being had been waiting for. A chance to change its existence for the better. A chance for it to have a body once more. But to do so, it needed Harry’s help. Needed his strength, if he would give it.

 _Yes_ , Harry agreed willingly, sending it a burst of complete acceptance. They were friends. More than friends. How could he not offer? _Take what you need._

There was pain then, originating somewhere deep inside his chest. His strength flowed out of him, drained into the Being as they rose together as a roiling cloud over the stranger, as they fell upon him and _poured_ themselves into him. Emotions assaulted them, emotions that didn’t belong to them. Fear, despair, injustice, anger. And the Being whispered to the stranger, soothing his fears and raising him from despair, telling him that together they would do so much more. Forget being famous for finding it. By _serving_ it instead, he would learn so much more. He would get the recognition he deserved. No one would laugh at him again.

A word stood out among the rush of new things in their existence. A concept more than a concrete object. _Hogwarts_. Harry had no idea what it was; he was by now barely there, only holding onto the dream through sheer willpower. But while he didn’t recognise the word, the images that came with it spoke to him all the more clearly. It was home, it was safety, it was wonder and learning and power and Harry wanted to go there. _They_ wanted to go there. And this Man was the key.

But he was weakening, and even as the Being made for itself a space inside the Man, the dream world was fading, and Harry with it. The Being let him go with a final surge of gratitude and promise, and then everything went dark.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

The world, when he woke up, was on fire. He was burning up, and even the pounding on the cupboard door didn’t overpower the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“Get up, you lazy freak!” something yelled, but the words were distant, nearly unintelligible.

Light flooded his cupboard, stabbing into his eyes even through the eyelids. A whimper tore itself from his throat as he tried and failed to turn away from it. He was disgustingly _grateful_ when his uncle’s heavy bulk filled the doorway and shielded him from the light.

“Stop pretending,” Vernon growled, reaching out and grabbing hold of him. Harry gasped as agony tore through him at the touch, and for a second his mind showed him visions of his uncle yanking him out and then slowly dying on the floor because no one would deign to pick him up and put him back on his cot. But the tug on his upper arm stopped almost before it began and Vernon’s hand disappeared. “Dear God, you’re burning up!”

 _Yes, thank you, I’d noticed,_ Harry thought, but wouldn’t have been able to voice those thoughts even had it not been suicide to do so.

Vernon stumbled back, and then the door slammed shut again, dousing the light. “Tunie!” he heard Vernon outside of it. “The boy’s sick, probably contagious, and I _touched_ him. I need a shower. Don’t let Dudley go near him, you hear?”

Aunt Petunia answered something from afar, but Harry’s brain was incapable of translating the sound of her voice into actual words. Vernon went away, probably heading for the bathroom though Harry couldn’t care less.

Seconds or hours passed. Then the door quietly opened. Mustering what strength he had, Harry jerked his arm up to cover his eyes, another keening whimper growing in his throat.

“Here,” a woman’s voice said softly, so different from Petunia’s normal tone that it was difficult to believe it was the same person. There was a soft thunk on the ratty shelves near his head, probably right next to his glasses if he heard it right. “Made you some squash. Don’t think it’ll be a habit, now, but you’ll need the extra sugar.”

A flicker in the light on his arm-covered eyes, and then the door closed as gently as it had opened, leaving him alone in the blessed darkness. After resting for a few minutes, Harry reached up above his head and fumbled around until his fingers brushed what Petunia had left for him: a plastic bottle filled with liquid. Squash, he reminded himself. He half carried, half threw, the bottle closer to his mouth, struggling with the top until he could twist it open. The squash was heaven on his tongue. Liquid and sweet, though he’d be damned before he could identify the flavour. He drank it down to quench the fire that gripped him, to fill the void inside of him where his strength had left him in the dream. He drank until his belly felt bloated and the bottle was, judging by its weight, half empty. He didn’t bother trying to get it back onto the shelf, only put the cap back on and lay there with the cool cylinder against his cheek. Then he slept, and this time he didn’t dream.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

If his aunt and uncle were surprised by his swift recovery, they gave no sign of it. Of course, he'd always been quick to get better, but it had usually taken at least a couple of days. Perhaps they expected the same thing now, because even when he dragged himself out of bed the next morning, weak but no longer burning up, he wasn’t put to work right away. Maybe it was simply worry that he was still contagious, but he wasn’t made to cook breakfast for the other three. In fact, he was sent off to the bathroom to shower and pee, then told in firm tones to get his freaky arse back to bed and to not show his face again that day. He was given another bottle of squash to tide him over and at some point in the early afternoon even a not too stale sandwich.

Now that he wasn’t too ill to think, he could appreciate the holiday from his household chores. He could also, he discovered, be exceedingly bored. And he found himself actually missing having something to do. That had never happened before; he hadn’t even thought himself capable of that. Not even two years ago when he’d been disabled for two, three days due to a dislocated shoulder he’d eventually had to… locate? dis-dislocate? …whatever the term, he’d had to do it himself. Of course, then he’d been in pain for those days and _happy_ to lie there and feel sorry for himself. But now? Yes, he was exhausted and his cot stank of sweat, but other than that there was nothing wrong with him. And that, apparently, made all the difference in the world.

In the relative darkness of his cupboard, he stared up into the underside of the stairs for a few minutes, until memory provided him with plenty of good reasons why that was a bad idea. He wasn’t too keen on getting dust and sand and such in his eyes whenever someone passed overhead. So he put his arm over his eyes again as he closed them. If there was ever a time when he wanted to be able to fall asleep on demand, it was now. And yet the world was all to real around him, without any of the fuzziness on the edges that heralded sleep. So while he lay there and _waited_ , he cast his mind back to the first dreams he could remember, daydreamed his way back into the dream world, replayed every event he could recall. He even attempted to make up stories about him and the Being, but it was frustratingly difficult and in the end he gave up on that idea. Eventually, gradually, the memories became present day and reality slipped away in favour of familiarity.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

There were three of them now. Harry, the Being and the Man. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the newness of it or if it was something different about the Man, but there wasn’t the same _connection_ between them. For the first time, he had an inkling of what his aunt and uncle must think of him. He and the Being had had the perfect existence together—if you disregarded the whole disembodiment, of course—and now _he_ was there, hanging on at the edge of their symbiosis. It made Harry want to lash out, force the Man away from them.

There was a sense of apology from the Being. Regret that it’d had to drain Harry like that, that it hadn’t been strong enough on its own to do what had to be done. Harry shook his nonexistent head and similarly communicated his understanding and acceptance. They were family, after all. No, they were closer than family. Harry would give anything to make the Being happy, just as he knew the Being would do the same for him if he needed it. He ignored the vague sense of unease and guilt coming off of the Being and instead focused on the other differences compared to last time he’d been there.

A few seconds were all it took for Harry to assimilate what had happened during his absence. The Being and the Man had held a discussion, of sorts, and had come to an agreement. In exchange for the Being _not_ taking over the Man’s body and condemning the Man to the same existence it and Harry had suffered for the past however-long-it-had-been, the Man would help it gain a body of its own. To do that, they had left the forest and were now… somewhere that looked remarkably like England. The Being and Harry were for the most part blind, forced to rely on the Man’s eyes, but what they could see ticked all the British boxes in Harry’s part of their mind. Traffic, fashion, road signs, post boxes, billboards… Once he even thought he caught a glimpse of the easily recognisable silhouette of London Bridge. But there were other parts that didn’t add up. Like the street they were currently on where it seemed most everyone—men and women alike—wore dresses.

 _Robes_ , the Man corrected, then jerked back away from them as if worried either of them would retaliate for daring to overstep his bounds. When nothing happened for a few seconds, he seemed to relax a little.

There were tiny shops along the cobblestone street, but the Man didn’t stop at any of them. He walked them past a pet shop with the most fantastic creatures Harry had ever seen, past a dingy shop selling more of those sticks the Man had pointed at them.

 _Wands_ , the Man supplied. Clearly his presence had brought on the addition of words to the dreams. Whether it was because he was more firmly anchored in the physical aspect of the dream world, or because Harry was growing up, or because the relative distance between the other two and him forced the three of them to rely on a more verbal type of communication Harry had no idea.

They turned down onto a side alley, and it was like crossing over into the bad neighbourhood, provided said neighbourhood existed snug up against the good one. It had to be Harry’s imagination, but the sky felt darker. The houses were dirtier, the cobblestones littered with garbage. Was that blood spattered on the wall? Harry took it all in as the Man cautiously made their way down the narrow street, their physical gaze flickering from dirty window to black-dressed figure to scabby rat to barely-lit lantern in a way that kept giving Harry new things to look at but never allowing him to discern any details. It felt odd, only being able to see in one direction. In a way, it was closer to his daytime life, but after so many years he’d become used to the way he and the Being could see in practically every direction at once, and the change made him feel strange and limited. Still, it would be worth the limitation for all the wonders that a physical body for the Being would bring.

Finally and at the same time all too soon the Man turned aside and reached for a door, opening it and stepping into what Harry could only compare to a museum. He’d been to one with school, once. There were items and oddities everywhere. Harry wanted to take a closer look, but the Being directed the Man to the counter, where they proceeded to have a conversation with the shop keeper that Harry couldn’t understand. There were terms he just didn’t get, despite the flashes of images that accompanied them. There were convoluted ways of saying things when Harry _knew_ it was said that way only to prevent anyone from catching them with their fingers in the cookie jar. The information the Being was after was too complicated. There was talk of elixirs and blood and souls and unicorns and all Harry felt was a desperate need to help the other half of his soul.

If only he could offer his own body up, but it wouldn’t work that way. He’d tried before, but all he’d given himself was a splitting headache for the effort. He’d then tried to direct the Being to his home, but whenever he tried to think his address or visualise its location… his mind went blank. In his dreams, he literally could never remember his own address, and any time he tried to remember what the house looked like he only got a vague house-shaped grey blur. It was frustrating, but he didn’t expect it’d ever change anytime soon.

Unable to follow in the discussion, he just rested against the Being, letting the words flow past him as a river of sound rather than trying to listen in. As long as the Man and the Being understood it all, that was enough for Harry. He was happy just being able to be here with his only friend instead of in his boring cupboard.

It took him a few seconds to realise that the Man had stopped speaking mid-sentence.

 _Cupboard?_ came the question, and then a few moments later a wave of reassurance and patience.

It wasn’t a big deal. Sure, he’d have liked a real bedroom like his cousin had, but more than that he’d have liked a family that actually _wanted_ him there with them.

“Excuse me for a moment,” the Man told the shopkeeper, and they stepped away from the counter.

 _Talk to us, boy,_ the Being asked, and Harry recoiled. While it was an interesting development in itself, the Being using words, why did it have to choose _that_ one? Almost faster than thought, images of his uncle flickered through his mind. Berating him, scolding him, hurting him. Always with that same word on his lips. Boy. Well, that or ‘freak’.

Alarm and understanding flowed from his companions. A brief pause, and then a wave of apology. _I won’t use it again, mine._ And this time instead of revulsion the address made Harry’s non-existent eyes tear with emotion.

 _Yes_ , he burst out, unable to contain himself. Yes, he belonged with the Being. They belonged together. _Yours._ For as long as it wanted him.

_Always. Without you, I would have lost myself._

The Man grudgingly agreed, with a flash of memory back to how Harry had shared his strength. _I’m sure this would be much less pleasant for me, had you not been there._

 _I’m sorry I interrupted_ , Harry apologised. This whole verbal communication part made things easier, but they also made things… more distant. He’d loved being so intermingled with the Being that there was no beginning and no end, and now… Now he was starting to see the edges between the three of them. _I’ll be quiet so you can talk._

There was silence for a few seconds, though Harry had the distinct impression there was some sort of communication going on that he wasn’t privy to, and that terrified him. What if they didn’t need him anymore? Now that they had each other, what good was Harry/mine?

 _Shh_ , the Being soothed, and its presence inside their body flowed into and around Harry/mine as though embracing him. _Always mine._

Always. Harry/mine wished he could believe it. He _wanted_ to believe it.

_Believe it._

Slowly, he nodded. He’d do his best to believe what it told him. It had never lied to him before. Of course, it hadn’t had the words to lie with before either, but… It _had_ always been as honest as it possibly could. He believed that.

Closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch, consciously letting go of his fears and making the decision to trust. In the relative distance, he felt the Man return to the shopkeeper, heard the conversation pick up again, but he didn’t care. He was wanted, and that was all that mattered.

He wasn’t sure when he faded from the dream and returned to the real world, but even there he felt a new kind of purpose in his life. Someone, even if it was only an imaginary friend that existed inside his dream world, wanted him. He could take a lot of ‘boy’ and ‘freak’ and slaps and pinches and more, because that was only while he was awake. When he was asleep, he wasn’t even Harry anymore. He was Mine, and he belonged.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

 _Things are crazy right now,_ Mine told the other two some weeks later. _There are so many letters, and_ they _won’t let me have even one of them._

He could feel their piqued attention. _Letters?_

 _I’ve never had letters before. And these are so weird, with a purple seal on the back, and the address even made mention of my cupboard._ He sensed anger from the other two and quickly added, _Not that I sleep there anymore. They moved me upstairs to my cousin’s storage bedroom instead._

 _Well, it’s about time_ , the Man said. Mine didn’t have the heart to tell him it hadn’t been to be _nice_ they’d moved him there.

 _Listen, mine,_ the Being said, its tone so serious it drew Mine’s complete attention. _You_ must _get hold of one of those letters._

_But they won’t let me._

The Being made a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. _And are you going to let them tell you what to do for the rest of your life?_

 _N-no, but I tried, and…_ It was so frustrating. How was he supposed to grab a letter? His uncle was so much bigger than Harry and it was simply impossible to take one from him. He had even _slept_ under the mail slot, just to keep those letters away from Harry.

_Don’t use strength. Use cunning. Use patience. Do it when they least expect it. Concentrate. Have strange things not happened just because you wanted it badly enough?_

Mine blinked. He remembered running from his cousin and ending up on a rooftop. He remembered his hair growing out overnight after his aunt had more or less shaved his head. He remembered that sweater he absolutely hated shrinking until it was too small to go over his head. He remembered the glass on the terrarium at the zoo vanishing, releasing the snake inside to try and make it back home to the South America it had never seen before. He wondered what had happened to that snake in the end.

_See? This will work, too. Just concentrate really badly on one of those letters ending up on your bed, so you can read it when no one’s looking. It will work._

_Thank you_ , Mine said. _I’ll do that._

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

Harry woke up, and went downstairs from his new bedroom. He’d do this. His friend said it was possible, and he knew he’d made things happen before. This would just be the first time he tried to make something happen _on purpose_ rather than by accident.

His aunt and uncle were already up, which wasn’t really like them. Then again, judging by how they had been fighting an influx of strangeness in their house the past few days he supposed it wasn’t _too_ strange. Not when Vernon had even boarded the mail slot up yesterday.

It didn’t stop the letters. Only now they slid in underneath the door and even through the window in the downstairs bathroom. Vernon had a handful of those letters in his hand already, heading to throw them away, probably intending to tear them up in as many pieces as possible first. Harry stared hard at the letters, visualising his bed and picturing one of those letters not on top of it but _under_ it. Safely hidden away where no one could see it until he went to read it.

He shuddered as something inside of him flared and drained, and had to lean against the doorframe to keep himself on his feet.

“What are you just standing there for, boy?” Aunt Petunia asked. “Breakfast won’t cook itself; hop to it.”

Harry shook his head to clear it, hoping it had worked. “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he answered politely. “I just didn’t want to get in the way.” He headed over to the fridge without protest, taking out the things he needed. Cooking was easy. He didn’t even need to think about what he was doing anymore, so he could spend almost all of his attention on planning when he could sneak away to read the letter that was hopefully waiting for him underneath his bed. With his luck, it probably wouldn’t be until evening. It depended on what his list of chores contained.

He cooked and served breakfast, and then stood by ready to refill glasses. He made no protest at not being given anything for himself. He didn’t complain and even managed not to spill anything when Dudley tried to trip him. He was polite and obedient and silent apart from brief responses of, “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” or, “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” or “Yes, Dudley.” In short, he was as perfect as he could be. Not that they would appreciate it, but at least they wouldn’t be upset with him.

Uncle Vernon didn’t leave for work today either, withdrawing to the living room to plant himself in front of the telly while Dudley headed out to play with his friends—though he had to whinge and complain quite a bit to be allowed, something Harry wasn’t used to seeing. Aunt Petunia handed him his list of chores before joining her husband in the living room. Harry looked through it and mentally sorted it into the most convenient order, and then had to hold back a gasp of surprise. Fortunately Petunia wasn’t nearby anymore and didn’t see him staring like an idiot at the list for a few seconds.

While cleaning Dudley’s room was never one of his favourite things to do, this time it was a godsend. It was right next door to his new bedroom—also known as Dudley’s second bedroom—and it gave him plenty of opportunity to nip into his room to quickly read through the letter.

He slipped upstairs and headed into Dudley’s room. While he wanted to run into the second bedroom right away, he knew the Being had been right. He had to be smart. The moment he acted too eager, they’d know something was up. So he focused on cleaning his cousin’s room until he had a small box of broken and unwanted toys. Then he carried it into the other bedroom since all those broken things ended up there.

Leaving the door ajar so he’d more easily hear anyone coming up the stairs, he dropped to his knees as quietly as he could by his bed, peering in under it.

His heart lurched in his chest. It was there! It was there, and it was whole and it was _his._ He wasn’t ashamed to admit that his hand was trembling as he reached in and took it.

 _Mr H. Potter_ , he read. _The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey._ No post code. Huh. How did the letters get there without the proper post code? Not that it made much sense for the mailmen to slip letters in through the cracks when the mail slot wasn’t available, either.

He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t have time to worry about this. He only had a few minutes before Petunia was going to wonder what he was up to.

Turning the letter over, he only looked at the wax seal for a few seconds—looking at it for too long had led to him being caught last time, after all—before cracking it open and tugging out the contents of the envelope. Again, he thought his heart would stop. It wasn’t possible. How could–? It had just been his _dreams_! But it was there, in the same green as the address on the front. _Hogwarts_. He could still remember the sense of warmth and learning and _home_ that had come from the Being at its mention. And not only that. It was, according to his letter, a school ‘of witchcraft and wizardry’. A magic school.

It was with pain he folded the letter up and hid it under his pillow before returning to his chores. He couldn’t take too long. He’d have to read more of it later. Crossing to the box he’d left on the floor, he emptied it into one of the larger ones already stationed in the room and returned to Dudley’s main bedroom.

Cleaning Dudley’s room had never gone that quickly. Nor had it ever felt like it had taken longer. He hurried through it as much as he possibly could, finding a few more broken toys in the process. Still, he made himself finish the room, even dragging the hoover upstairs (though dragging was a misnomer; he had to carry it carefully up the steps to avoid slamming it into anything and ‘making undue noise’) and taking care of the floors. Then he equally carefully put it away again before daring to nip off with the remaining half box of broken stuff and read the rest of the letter.

As he read, his eyes grew wider and wider. He… had a place at this school? He could go there instead of Stonewall High? He… had to… send his _owl_? What?

He did like the name Minerva, though. It was pretty. Wasn’t it the name of some Greek or Roman goddess? He couldn’t keep the two pantheons apart, and the Dursleys had never really approved of him learning things, especially things that weren’t _normal_ , but now he rather wanted to learn about it.

He’d ask them, he decided as he hid the letter away again, slipping it in under his mattress this time. Not his aunt and uncle, of course, but the Being and the Man. Even if they were only figments of his imagination, the way Vernon had said invisible friends were, it’d give him some room to talk about it with himself and figure out what to do. Hopefully before Vernon went completely crazy.

The rest of his chores couldn’t be done soon enough, and he didn’t dare to give them any reason to think he wasn’t happy about not getting more than the scrapings off of the others’ plates for supper. He only had a couple of days to get back to the school—was it really fair of them to give him that short a time to respond?—and he didn’t want to risk being locked up for being ‘uppity’. And he definitely didn’t want to give Vernon and Petunia any chance of keeping him from going to Hogwarts. He _was_ going there, even if he had to run away from home.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best scenario. For all he knew, they might just deny him entry and send him back to Privet Drive. But… the letter had been addressed to _him_ , not to ‘the guardian of Harry Potter’ or similar, the way official letters to Dudley most often were addressed to his parents. Surely that meant something?

By the time he made it to bed, adrenaline was still running though his veins, making it difficult to fall asleep. He checked that his letter was still there, and then he lay there, hand pressed to the mattress above where it was hidden. He had a way out. He could get away from this. He just needed to figure out how to go about it.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

 _I did it!_ was the first thing Mine said as he became aware of his surroundings. Then he blinked and stared at what the Man was looking at. It was an office, wasn’t it? Except the floor and walls were of dark grey stone. Well, where they weren’t covered with rugs or paintings or wall-hangings. It reminded him of those medieval castles he’d sometimes seen on telly or in history books. _Where are we?_ It was the first time he’d dared to ask that, and he hadn’t intended for the question to slip out.

 _You did it?_ the Being asked him, seemingly ignoring the second question, at least for now. There was a hint of confusion, but then the emotion cleared up. _The letter?_

 _Yes! I got one, and I can go to a school called Hogwarts and it’s a school of_ magic _!_

Pride and anticipation washed over him. _I didn’t expect anything less from you. I am proud of you, mine._

The Man seemed to ignore them, edging away from them and attempting to hide his emotional response. Despite that, Mine could still feel his nervousness and worry. The Being, on the other hand, wrapped its incorporeal arms around him, holding him so tightly they almost blended into one, and it was everything Mine could ever have wanted.

 _Only…_ he murmured into the Being. _Only I don’t know what to do now. They want ‘my owl’, and I have no idea what they mean._

 _Wizards send their post by owl carrier,_ the Man commented, revealing that he had indeed been listening to them. _If you don’t have one, you can send it via ordinary mail. There are setups in place to redirect certain addresses to owl post without non-magical people realising what’s going on. For example, anything with Hogwarts in the address._

Mine breathed out a sigh of relief. That made sense. And surely he could try to get away at some point and use his hard-gained money on a stamp. Except… _Will they stop now? The letters, I mean? Or will they keep coming until I send my response back?_

He could sense the Man shaking his head. _You’ve touched it and opened it. Breaking the seal and reading it will have signalled the school that it’s been properly delivered to the one it’s addressed to._

Yet another relief. He rested against the Being for a while before forcing himself to withdraw. He didn’t want it to think him weak or needy. Surely it’d stop being proud of him if it thought that.

 _Never_ , it promised, making him smile, but didn’t try to pull him back.

_So… where are we? You never said._

_We didn’t,_ the Being confirmed. _I would prefer to keep it quiet for now. And… I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention these dreams to anyone from Hogwarts._

For a few seconds, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of Mine’s lungs—had he had any. The Being didn’t want… But before he could even finish that thought, he remembered the years of running, of hiding, of searching for… for revenge? _They’re the ones?_ The ones they’d been hiding from.

The Being didn’t respond at first, but then it grudgingly nodded. _Some of them. The others… they might not understand, or they might let something slip to the wrong person. I don’t yet know who I can trust apart from you two._ It leaned in closer and slipped a tendril of thought straight into Mine’s part of their mind. _And you’re the only one who knows me, mine. The only one I_ choose _to trust._ Before Mine could respond, it withdrew. _So please stop asking, and don’t try to guess._

Mine took a deep breath, then nodded. _I promise._

 _Thank you. Close your eyes._ It once more wrapped itself around him, and he closed his eyes to what was outside the Man. He felt them move, felt them striding purposefully somewhere, heading down staircases. He heard words, but all he could hear clearly was the Being whispering in his ears, telling him how proud it was of him, how much he’d love it at Hogwarts, how the school would become his true home, just like it had once been the Being’s.

Mine blinked. _You went there, too?_

Pain and anger and grief lanced through it strong enough to resonate inside Mine, and he regretted asking. _I did_ , it confessed. _It was a long time ago, and I’m not welcome there anymore, but it was the best seven years of my life._

Seven years. If it was still the same, Mine would be… almost eighteen by the time he graduated. Almost an adult.

 _Fully adult_ , it contradicted, obviously having caught the gist of his non-projected thoughts. _Seventeen is when the magical world considers you an adult._

Oh. He hadn’t realised that. It only took him a few moments to grasp what that meant in extension. It meant one less year he’d have to stand his so-called family. If he worked hard during school and got good grades—something he’d never been able to get before, since he wasn’t allowed to upstage his cousin—he’d hopefully be able to get a job as soon as he graduated, and he wouldn’t have to set foot at… at that house again, he finished when the address refused to come to him.

_It’s good you’re considering your future, mine. Now hold on; we’re going somewhere we don’t have to worry about what you might see._

Mine nodded, but didn’t have time to reflect over what the words meant before his existence was turned inside out and spun around, narrowed into a straw that sucked him through, compressing him into impossibility. He was glad he didn’t have a body, or he was sure he’d be on all fours puking his guts out when they rematerialized. After a little while the Being backed off and allowed him to look out through the Man’s eyes again.

They were in a small house, little more than a cabin. It was small and cluttered and old-fashioned and absolutely wonderful. Mine couldn’t stop staring and marvelling at every object he couldn’t figure out a purpose for. It was such a difference to his aunt and uncle’s house—which was perfect, neat and impersonal—that it was difficult to wrap his mind around it. His fingers itched to explore the place, but he resigned himself to simply looking.

The Man laughed out loud, the chuckle filling the room they were in—a study, Mine guessed. _Go ahead,_ he told Mine. _I’ll follow your lead for a while. Explore as much as you like. If anything’s dangerous, we’ll stop you._ And with that, he… stepped aside, pushing Mine to the front.

It was the oddest sensation, he had to say. He’d always been just a passenger, first in the incorporeal Being, and then in the Man together with the Being. Now he was suddenly in the driver’s seat, and the body he was in control of wasn’t anything like his own. It was taller and heavier, and his balance was off.

He clenched and opened his hands, staring at his fingers, trying to get used to having control over them. He took a step toward the desk, overflowing with papers and medieval quills and inkpots… and promptly stumbled over his own feet when they didn’t move the way he was used to moving. He barely had time to hiss in dismay before he hit the floor, pain spiking into him from his knees in a way that told him there’d be bruises soon enough.

 _Sorry!_ he apologised, distraught. It wasn’t his body, and now he’d gone and hurt them all. He shuddered as his mind touched on what his uncle would have done had he managed to hurt any of _that_ family this way.

 _Calm, mine_ , the Being whispered in the back of their mind. _We won’t hurt you. I would never willingly hurt you unless I had no other recourse._ Its voice tensed as it shot the Man a glance. _And I wouldn’t let him hurt you either._

 _I wouldn’t!_ the Man hurriedly assured them. _I swear, my lord, I only wish to serve you._

Mine blinked. _My lord?_ he asked, never having heard those words from the Man before, not once in the two weeks or so since they’d met him.

 _I…_ Shame and fear spread from the Man’s presence in their mind. Clearly he wasn’t supposed to have said it.

The Being sighed and waved the Man aside. _I’ll talk to you later,_ it said. It? He? Mine tried to adjust his thinking. Surely the ‘lord’ part indicated the Being was male, didn’t it? _Lie down, mine,_ it/he said then.

Mine, who hadn’t yet climbed to their feet obeyed, laying their body down on the floor, hoping it wasn’t too dirty.

 _Come here,_ he was instructed then, and he fled from the forefront to bury himself in the Being’s embrace. _I’ve been trying to keep you from knowing this, as it is information that might put you in danger._

 _I’m sorry, m-my lord,_ Mine apologised, once more feeling bad about having asked so many questions earlier. Then he swallowed as the Being’s presence around him chilled considerably, going sharp-edged and brittle, as though it/he could crack and explode at any moment.

 _Don’t call me that, mine, unless you truly mean it,_ it/he told him sharply. Mine couldn’t bring himself to apologise again and only nodded numbly. He was relieved when the Being softened once more. _I wish I could tell you more, but there are those who can read your mind, and if they knew about this you would be in terrible danger, and I am not yet in a position to protect you._

A thousand questions swirled in Mine’s part of their mind. There were people who could… How was that even possible? Magic, of course, but even so… Why would he be in danger? Was the Being in danger? If people could read… wouldn’t they find out there wasn’t just the one mind inside their body?

He squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to push the questions away. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He _trusted_ the Being, and if it/he told him this was for the best, he believed that. _I won’t ask anything you don’t feel safe telling me_ , he promised. _I’ll do my best not to look at where we are. I’ll try not to listen to conversations around us._

_Thank you, mine. Now let’s stop worrying about those things. Our host needs to rest in order to maintain our daily life, so let’s just remain in here for now._

Mine nodded. He slightly regretted not being able to investigate the cabin like he’d been allowed earlier, but he’d meant it when he said he wouldn’t ask for anything more than the Being was willing to give him. He sure wasn’t about to complain.

Keeping his eyes closed he relaxed into the Being’s hold, feeling them meld together until he was no longer quite sure where he ended and the Being began, just like it had been back when it was just the two of them. Before _he_ had found them and become their host.

 _I…_ he ventured hesitantly, remembering that night all too clearly. _If you ever need strength again, take from me. I’m yours._ The Being sure reiterated it often enough, and Mine had never seen any reason to protest. _Like you did then, I mean._

The Being’s presence wobbled in what Mine had come to realise was shock or startlement. A few seconds passed. _I hope I won’t have to take you up on your offer, mine. Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I'm currently writing on during Camp NaNoWriMo. I had first decided not to post until I knew more firmly where I was going with it—and until I had a title I was satisfied with. I mean, I'm not even sure if the relationship between Voldie and Harry will remain platonic or if it'll turn romantic at some point, but either way, I'm 95% positive the main romantic pairing will be M/M. But then I decided to go ahead and post the first chapter at least, as something of a teaser. Once April is over, I'll see about finding a nice pace for updating this.
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter looks a bit choppy with all the scene breaks. I couldn't come up with a better way to write it without reiterating too much of actual book content. Over-all, I probably won't quote too much of actual dialogue from the books, since Ms Rowling's writing isn't mine.


	2. Aim to Misbehave

_…in which Harry gets in over his head, Vernon may be late to work, and Petunia fails to keep her house normal._

 

“Hah!” Vernon barked smugly as he watched the minute hand on the clock make the last jump to twelve noon. Harry couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. Mid day, and no letters had tried to arrive. Clearly Vernon thought it was his plugging of all possible cracks and openings, but thanks to his dreams Harry knew—or at least had good reason to suspect—that it was because he’d opened the letter and read it. He didn’t know how it worked that way, but on the other hand he didn’t know how that letter had managed to end up under his bed just because he’d wished for it either.

“The day’s not over, dear,” Petunia warned her husband, nudging her glass toward Harry in an unspoken order to refill it. Harry made no comment as he obeyed, then rounded the table to refill Dudley’s glass as well before his cousin could think of demanding it.

A rumble vibrated in Vernon’s throat as he made a sound halfway between a humph and a growl. “You have to agree it’s a good sign, Tunie,” he argued. Petunia only smiled and nodded.

Harry waited not quite so patiently for them to finish lunch and hopefully give him an opportunity to eat as well. He’d been lucky today when doing laundry and he’d found twelve pence altogether in various pockets—most of them Dudley’s, fortunately—but he needed far more money to be able to afford not only the stamp but the envelope and something to write on as well. Postage shouldn’t be more than fourteen pence, unless they’d raised the fee since Easter, when he’d been in charge of affixing stamps to postcards. He hadn’t been trusted to carry them to the mailbox, though. Vernon had taken care of that on his way to work. Stationery, on the other hand, could be quite expensive since he’d either have to find a single paper and envelope or buy a package where he’d end up not even using the majority of it all. There’d be no way he’d be able to keep them hidden from the Dursleys, so he couldn’t exactly bring them home.

Then again, Vernon and Petunia weren’t going to let him go off on his own anytime soon, so he had a bit of time before he’d have a chance of replying to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall.

Finally the three were finished, and Harry dutifully scraped all leftovers onto a single plate before stacking them to carry to the sink. It made the remains look less appetising, which was only a bonus. It meant they didn’t mind nearly as much if he ate some of it. Still, he remained wary until they had all left the kitchen. He could never be quite sure, after all, if he’d be ordered to throw the leftovers away or not. Hurriedly he cleared as much as possible off the plate, nearly inhaling the food. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Harry was used to not eating too much. It had made the school nurse look suspiciously at him once or twice, but not nearly as often after the Dursleys explained that he’d always been small for his age and that his father had been the same. Harry, of course, had no way of knowing if that was true or not, since he didn’t even remember his dad.

He finished the dishes, looking anxiously out the window at the flowerbeds. He hadn’t been allowed to tend them since the ‘mess’ with the letters had started, either out front or in the back garden. Clearly they were worried he’d get hold of one of those letters when they couldn’t stop him. It wasn’t that he particularly _liked_ gardening, but it meant his workload would have more than doubled by the time he’d be trusted outdoors without someone watching over him like a hawk. He only hoped the weather would stay reasonable until he had time to deal with it. He’d even take rain over blazing sunlight; it meant he wouldn’t need to water the flowerbeds as well. Then he shook his worries aside; he had enough to do without spending time missing even more chores.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

There were no letters that day, nor the next. Harry kept his eyes open and pocketed any small change he came across that he felt certain wouldn’t be missed. He had just over fifty pence by now, having been lucky enough to find a twenty-P coin under Dudley’s bed just that morning. He’d also worked out in his head what to write in the letter—asking just a little bit of advice from the Being and their Host, as he’d started to call the owner of their body—and felt ready. And today it seemed Vernon’s paranoia had settled. Not only had he gone to work, but grocery shopping was written up on his list of chores.

Finally. Today he’d see if he had enough to send off a quick reply to Hogwarts. He gave no sign of his eagerness, however, knowing Aunt Petunia would notice it and become suspicious. He did his best to force himself to go through his chores in the usual order, but then at eleven he decided that enough was enough. Besides, some of the groceries would be useful for lunch as well.

He pocketed the shopping list and the money—sadly he wouldn’t be able to use any of that for his letter as the change would be checked and double-checked to ensure he hadn’t stolen anything—and picked up his school backpack to carry some of the groceries in. He quietly and politely informed Petunia that he was off to the shop and then left.

With a bit of luck and just a tiny bit of wheedling—and pretending he was younger than he was—he managed to get a paper, envelope and stamp with the money he had, even leaving him with five p to his name. He was also lent a pen. Sitting down in the post office, he painstakingly wrote his reply.

 

     _Dear Deputy Headmistress,_ he began. 
     _I got your letter a few days ago, but didn’t have an oportunity to reply until now. I would be very happy to go to Hogwarts, but I’m afraid I need a bit of help. I was down with the flu when the letters started coming, and my aunt and uncle were very upset over how many letters turned up. They’re not very willing to let me go, and are worried over how much it would cost. You see, there’s not enough money to get the books I need, and we don’t know where the school is or how I’m to get there. So if it’s possible to borrow the needed books, or if there’s somewhere to get them second-hand, it would be helpful._
     _Also, if it’s possible to not mention to them that it’s a magic school, it would be nice. They are very proud of being normal and don’t like hearing about things they can’t do._
     _Best regards,_  
_Harry Potter_

 

Folding the paper up and slipping it into the envelope, he addressed it to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, Hogwarts School, but left off the bit about witchcraft and wizardry. He wished he could add more to the address, but he trusted what they’d told him that someone at the post office would notice the word Hogwarts and send it to the right place. Affixing the stamp, he slid the letter into the post box and returned the pen with a smile and a ‘thank you’ before leaving the post office to continue with his errand.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

He stayed up that night as usual, waiting for the moment his birthday arrived. Eleven years old.

“Happy birthday to me,” he whispered softly, turning over in his bed and closing his eyes, ready to go to the one person who was always willing to wish him a happy birthday as well. Well, two people this time, he assumed.

_Tock-tock._

He blinked his eyes open. What was that? The sound came again, and he turned around and fumbled for his glasses. A third time, and he climbed out of bed and headed over to the window. A dark shape was clinging to the windowsill, and even as Harry looked on it tapped on the window with its beak, making that same noise.

Eyes wide, he hurriedly opened the window just enough for the bird to hop inside and settle onto the tiny desk. He glanced toward the door, hoping the sounds hadn’t woken anyone up. When he looked back at the bird—an owl—it was holding one leg out to him with an almost expectant look. Harry blinked, but then noticed the letter tied to its leg.

He leaned in and untied the string. Peering at the envelope, he saw that it only had his name on it. The stationery looked the same as the Hogwarts letter, though, even if the seal on the back only had a lion’s head in profile on it. Also like the Hogwarts letter, it had no stamp on it. Why hadn’t they sent the previous letter this way? Well, after he’d been moved upstairs and actually _had_ a window of his own, that was.

A soft fluttering drew his attention in time to see the owl head back out through the window.

“Thank you,” he called softly after it. The hoot he got in response made him smile and imagine it had understood him, no matter how unlikely that was. Closing the window, he opened the letter.

 

     _Dear Mr Potter,_
     _Thank you for your prompt response, and I’m glad you’ve recovered from your illness. I will come by later today to pick you up to get you your school supplies and explain the situation to you and your guardians. Please don’t worry about the money; I will bring your vault key with me. You may expect me at noon._
     _Best regards,_  
_Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall_

 

Harry blinked. Had she already gotten his letter _and_ managed to get a reply back to him? He’d only mailed it earlier that day. Huh. Looked like owl post was a lot more reliable than regular mail. He’d definitely have to get himself an owl, then. The letter had said he was allowed to have one.

Then he winced. Not that the Dursleys were likely to accept him having any sort of pet. Maybe it was better not to get one at all. Or maybe he should ask McGonagall if he could get a snake? That way he’d have another friend to talk to while he was awake. Plus he could always tell the Dursleys that it was venomous. That way they’d stay away from it.

Clutching his new letter, he hid it together with his previous one and went to sleep, eager to tell the Being and the Host about it.

As he had the last few nights, he made no effort to check where they were when he became aware of his two friends and melted into his night-time existence as Mine. Instead he performed the mental equivalent of clearing his throat to get their attention and sat down near the back of their mind.

 _Welcome back, mine_ , the Being said, pressing closer.

 _I sent the letter today, then got a response! The Deputy Headmistress herself is coming by to talk to me and_ them _._ He frowned. _She said she’s bringing my ‘vault key’. What does that mean?_

They were silent for a moment. Well, the Being was. Their Host didn’t even seem to be awake. Did that mean the Being had been the one in control of their body?

 _It means you have money_ , it/he finally responded. _How much, I don’t know, but it means at least one of your parents was magical enough to have an account at the wizarding bank._

 _My parents were magical? But they died in a car accident!_ Surely they wouldn’t have done that if they had magic, right? Even if they were drunk as his aunt and uncle always said.

There was another pause. _Perhaps that was what your relatives were told_ , it/he said then, somewhat cautiously. _There are rules for what can and can’t be said to Muggles. It’s more likely they died through some magical accident or illness that wasn’t safe to tell your non-magical relatives about._ Was it Mine’s imagination, or was there a sense of guilt buried in there? No sooner had Mine thought that before the Being started to withdraw from him.

 _No, please, I’m sorry. I won’t ask. I trust you._ He wanted to reach out and grab hold of the Being, pull it/him back. Instead he clenched his incorporeal hands by his sides and forced himself to wait. It was pure torture, and fortunately it didn’t last very long before the Being relented and came back.

_I promise I will tell you as soon as I deem it safe enough._

Mine nodded in response. He hated not knowing, but he’d do anything to prevent losing the Being.

 _There… there is one thing you can do._ The Being paused, as though gathering its/his courage. _If you see our host somewhere, don’t give any sign you recognise him. And don’t tell us if you have._

The question ‘why not’ was on the tip of Mine’s tongue, but then he figured it out. If he reacted, if he showed anyone that he recognised the Host, or made the Host aware of who he was, it would raise suspicions, wouldn’t it? It would make someone investigate. It would bring danger to them all, but most of all to the Being. And Mine couldn’t have that. _I’ll do my best._

Could it really be possible? Could it be that these weren’t ordinary dreams after all? That the two of them weren’t ‘imaginary friends’ his own mind had created? That they actually existed? Surely the possibility of meeting their host wouldn’t have come up otherwise, would it? The bits about him not knowing where they were could, after all, be explained by him inventing the excuse to make up for his lack of actual knowledge, but… Surely not even he would invent such fancy as _meeting_ his dream friends in the waking world? Not to mention their information on the Hogwarts letter and all; while it _was_ possible that was taken from his subconscious, he really couldn’t figure out where he’d have picked it up.

He shook his head to clear those thoughts from it. They wouldn’t do him any good. _Could… could you give me any advice for tomorrow?_ he asked instead.

 _Be polite, but honest._ The Being lifted his chin until their gazes met. _And tell her how they treat you. Make sure she knows. It’s not a guarantee they won’t send you back there next summer, but if you don’t tell them, it’s a guarantee they_ will _. Just… be careful who you trust. Be wary of twinkling blue eyes. Don’t look into them if you can help it._

Mine blinked. It was more than he’d expected to be told, but it was also very cryptic. _People never believed me before._ They _always said I was prone to exaggeration, and there were never bruises left where they couldn’t be explained away._

_I know, mine. But there are spells to find out just how many times your bones have broken, to see how little you get to eat. The truth will come out._

Mine nodded. _Alright. I’ll do that._

Brief amusement flowed through the Being. _If you want to make sure she’ll pay attention, misbehave before she gets there. Let her see the proof._ Mine swallowed at the thought of going out in public with– _She can heal it_ , the Being quickly assured him. _But it will be less easy to ignore than mere words._

Again, Mine nodded. _I’ll try it._ He’d been thinking of trying to warn them that there’d be a visitor, but maybe this way was better. Maybe it meant he’d be able to stay somewhere else. He’d even take the crazy cat lady down the street over his relatives. In comparison, she wasn’t really that bad, even if her house smelled.

_Good._

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

Misbehaving was easy. What wasn’t as easy was forcing himself to actually do it on purpose instead of trying his hardest to be good and failing. He forced himself to burn their breakfast and took a rolling pin a few times to his shoulder and upper arm. He was forced to re-cook it, and this time didn’t dare to fail.

Vernon was dressed in one of his better suits—apparently there was an important meeting at Grunnings that day—and that gave him an idea. He hated it, and it made his stomach roil in anticipation of the pain, but he’d _promised_. His hand shook when he went to pour orange juice for Vernon, and in the end that was what helped him. It didn’t even look deliberate when he missed the glass and ended up spilling juice over the table and down onto Vernon’s legs.

The kitchen fell absolutely silent. His deed done, Harry staggered back. The red colour of Vernon’s face and the set of his jaw told him he was in for it, and even though it was what he’d gone for it still terrified him. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went. He made sure to drop the glass pitcher to the floor. It cracked into three pieces, flooding the floor with the rest of the juice, spattering his own trousers.

“That’s _it_!” Vernon growled, pushing himself to his feet, his broad knuckles white against the table. The chair wobbled behind him before it tipped over and fell with a bang to the floor.

Harry couldn’t move. Couldn’t move as a meaty hand reached out, grabbed hold of the same arm that had suffered the rolling pin earlier and _yanked_ him toward his uncle. Blinding pain flashed through him and he sucked in a gasp that didn’t even come close to drowning out the wet, horrid sound of his shoulder dislocating. He staggered after Vernon, desperate to keep pace with him and keep himself from throwing up.

He slipped on the steps and went down, a shriek tearing itself from his throat as Vernon’s grip on his arm didn’t relent in the least. When Vernon either on purpose or through sheer momentum dragged him a couple of steps further up, the world went blissfully black.

It didn’t last long. All too soon he was aware of being thrown into his room and he flung up his other arm to catch himself. Another white flash of pain as he heard and felt his wrist break.

“You’ll be staying there,” Vernon growled. “I need to change, and if you’ve ruined this deal by making me late, you’ll get another lesson when I get home, you hear?”

Harry sobbed and didn’t move. Knowing he’d volunteered for this kind of pain didn’t make it any easier to stand. He tried to tell himself that it was necessary, and that it was worth it if it meant he didn’t have to come back here ever again.

The door slammed shut and he heard Vernon’s heavy steps in the hallway outside. Harry didn’t move. He didn’t know how to. His left shoulder dislocated and his right hand broken. Surely this was beyond the healing spells the Being had mentioned? It’d be hell to move, and it’d likely take him days, if not weeks, to get well again. How would McGonagall take him from here while he was still out? Did wizards have ambulances? Would anyone think to call one for him?

And then panic flooded him. Forget about worrying over those things: What if McGonagall left without seeing him at all? What if Petunia told her that he wasn’t in? What if she believed Harry’s aunt and _left_ him there? If that happened, he just knew he wouldn’t survive the rest of the summer.

Closing his eyes, he let the pain swallow him up, hoping it’d lead him to the one person, the one being, who might be able to help him.

He opened them again, the pain gone, but despite that his arms weren’t quite working properly. Letting out a sigh of relief over at least being free from pain, he slumped into the Being’s arms as it/he rushed up to catch him.

_What’s wrong, mine? Why are you here now?_

_I did it_ , he managed. _Shoulder wonky, hand broken. Hurts._ He could feel the Being vibrating with fury. _What if she doesn’t find me? Can’t move. Can’t get to the door. Don’t think I can make enough noise to draw attention._

“P-p-pardon m-me,” he heard their Host say, and the stuttering was so strange to hear that it made him forget his worries for just a few seconds. Then he remembered not to listen and managed to shut out the murmured assurances from unfamiliar voices.

_I’m sure she wouldn’t leave without seeing you, not when she sent you a letter informing you of when she’d arrive._

_But–_

_Shh, mine. I’m going to teach you one thing. I will lend you of my strength if necessary._

Mine listened avidly, nodding. Anything.

_Sonorous._

Huh? What did that mean?

 _It’s a spell to amplify anything you say._ A brief pause. _Like a megaphone. Say the word and focus really hard on making yourself heard. Without a wand, it’ll be difficult to cast it, but it shouldn’t be obvious you used an actual spell. Hopefully they’ll just assume it was raw, accidental magic answering your need._ Another pause. _What time did you say–_ It/he cut it/himself off and appeared to gaze out through the Host’s eyes. _Wake up now, mine. You said noon. That’s now._

It/he _pushed_ at Mine, sending him flying away.

He landed with a thud in a world filled with pain, just in time to hear the doorbell ring. How had hours passed? How could it be noon now when breakfast was at just before seven and he’d only been a few minutes with the Being?

“There’s no Harry Potter here!” he heard Petunia’s shrill voice. A brief pause and another voice saying something too quietly for Harry to interpret from this distance. “No, he’s out playing with his friends. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

No. She’d leave. “S-sonorous,” he gasped out, desperate to make the Deputy Headmistress know he was there, to make her hear him. There was a rush of weakness and intensified pain. Had it worked? Only one way to find out. “Help,” he managed, and he could hear his own voice booming through the room. If he hadn’t been in so much pain and worry he’d have sighed with relief. “Please, help.”

He heard Petunia squeak, then a crack as the door slammed open and into the wall.

“Mr Potter?” a woman’s voice sounded. It sounded upset but not quite as shrill as Petunia’s, and it sounded older.

“Upstairs. Please,” he pressed out, starting to go dizzy again. “Th-third door on the left.”

“You,” the woman snapped. “Stay.” Rapid footsteps up the stairs, then down the hallway. The door behind him was flung open, and then there was a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. “Mr Potter?” was asked again, this time softer, as though he’d break if someone spoke too loudly.

“S’me,” he whispered, magic still making it loud enough that Petunia probably heard it downstairs.

“What happened? No, wait, don’t talk. Did you… No, you can’t have. Just a moment.” Cloth rustled as she crouched or knelt down beside him, though he couldn’t see much other than black and tartan cloth and one heeled lace-up boot. The woman cleared her throat and he could feel the light touch of a wand against the side of his neck. “ _Quietus_.” The wand went away. “There, can you tell me what happened?”

“S-spilled juice,” he managed, and found that his voice was back to normal again. “Uncle Vernon dragged me upstairs and threw me here.” He tried to focus, to say the words that were needed. “Dis…” He drew a deep breath and whimpered as his shoulder protested the miniscule movement. “Dislocated my shoulder. Landing broke my wrist.”

The woman was utterly silent for a few, long seconds. Being unable to turn his head further to look up at her, Harry had no idea what was going through her head. “Did she know?” came then, the words eerily calm and measured. “Your aunt? Did she know?”

“She hit me for burning breakfast. Won’t care I’m hurt.”

“But she knew you were upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Again, silence. “Don’t worry, Mr Potter. I’ll take you to St. Mungo’s. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” A hand came to rest lightly on his head, but it didn’t feel like how Petunia checked Dudley’s forehead for fever. “This might feel strange.”

“Wait,” he managed, realising she had to be preparing to transport him away from here. The hand retreated a scant inch. “Under mattress, by pillow. My letters.”

She sighed, the rush of air abrupt and ragged. “You had to–? Of course you did.” Standing up, he heard her cross the room, heard the sound of the mattress being lifted and the rustle of papers. Her steps returned. “Is there anything else?”

Harry blinked, trying to think. “No,” he said finally. There really was nothing else. Nothing else that he cared about enough to not want to lose. He had his money in his pocket, not that it was much of anything, and his glasses were relatively stuck on his nose still.

“Alright. Well, like I said this may feel strange, maybe even uncomfortable, Mr Potter, but I promise you it’ll be better soon.” Again she knelt down and touched her hand to his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure if I want to keep chapter names; on the one hand it makes it easier to find the right chapter when you're looking for something in particular, but on the other hand... Is it too much when I also have the "in which" chapter summaries?
> 
> This chapter is a short one, and technically it could probably have been combined with the next one. For various reasons, that didn't happen. Sorry 'bout that; you'll just have to wait for when I have read through and edited chapter three ^^


	3. Pain Relief

_…in which Harry spends time in a bed surrounded by three women, tries to be just honest enough, and wonders if Merlin is a god._

 

The world spun around and narrowed into a tube that squeezed him so tightly he could barely breathe, let alone see or hear anything. He felt wrung out, turned inside out and shaken, and had he had anything in his stomach he would have vomited when the world was suddenly normal again. He wasn’t entirely sure how much was pure nausea and how much was due to the pain in his shoulder and wrist.

He remembered the general feeling from when the Host had taken them from the place he wasn’t supposed to see, but it was a slightly different experience when he was in his own body; it was at the same time both worse and easier. Then again on second thought, his injuries probably accounted for it being worse.

There were people around. The woman—Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, by any assumption—left him and he could hear her demanding help, her voice pitched lower than normal but no less sharp.

Another woman, this one not dressed in black but bright lime-green, crouched down next to him. “Hello, I’m Nadine Grey and I’m a mediwitch here at St Mungo’s. I’m going to move you to a bed now, alright?”

Harry drew a shuddering breath and steeled himself for the pain of being carried. But there was no increase of pain. Had he not seen himself rise into the air he would have assumed he was still on the floor. He closed his eyes against the disorienting feeling of being floated through the air. At least with his eyes closed he could pretend he wasn’t moving.

He did whimper when he was turned around onto his back, and then he sank down onto a soft mattress.

“Thank you, Madam Grey,” he heard McGonagall say softly. “I’m sure we’d all prefer if this didn’t become public knowledge until I know for sure what’s been going on.”

“There’s a procedure to things.” Madam Grey’s voice was strained, the kind of forced pleasant tone to it that told Harry she wasn’t at all happy with the situation. “Why would you want to–” Harry turned his head to look at her, and she stopped mid-sentence, gasping as her eyes went to his forehead. Harry blinked and watched all signs of tension drain from her rounded face. “May I?” she almost whispered, reaching out, but even when Harry didn’t respond right away she gently brushed his fringe aside, which somehow warranted another gasp. She looked over at the older woman. “This is–?”

McGonagall nodded, her expression grave. “It is.”

Madam Grey swallowed and seemed to make an effort to gather her wits. “Mr Potter,” she said then, returning her attention to Harry. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Would they believe him? The Being had told him they could check with magic, and even if he didn’t trust these strangers he trusted it/him. McGonagall had promised him he’d get something for the pain, but he supposed they needed to be told before they could give him anything. He took as deep a breath as he dared without jostling his shoulder and mentally told himself to be patient. “I managed to burn the Dursleys’ breakfast, so Aunt Petunia whacked me in the arm with the rolling pin a few times. Then I spilled juice when filling Uncle Vernon’s glass and it went on his clothes, so he yanked me hard and my shoulder popped out.” Well, theoretically he might not have done that if Harry hadn’t dropped the pitcher, but… that wasn’t important right now. “Left shoulder. He dragged me upstairs and threw me into the bedroom. I caught myself but landed badly and my right wrist broke.” He swallowed, remembering the horror of not knowing whether he’d be found or not. “He told me that if I’d made him late and the deal was ruined, I’d get another lesson when he got home.”

He needed to be careful now. Pausing to gather his thoughts under the pretence that he stopped because of the pain, he searched for the right words to explain what had happened without revealing his dreams or that he’d known a spell he probably shouldn’t have known. “I think I passed out, because then I heard the doorbell, and I’d been told noon but breakfast was at seven. I didn’t want her to leave me there, and I tried to call for help, wanting her to hear me so badly, and then my voice was really loud.” If the Being hadn’t helped him, he’d have been lost. He looked up at McGonagall. “Thank you for not leaving, ma’am,” he whispered.

The two women were silent, both of them staring at him.

“It really hurts,” he prompted, not wanting to beg them for the pain relief he’d been promised, but he would if he had to. He was used to begging for things and even more used to not getting it.

He didn’t have to beg. Madam Grey jumped as though she’d been spanked, her blonde curls wobbling around her head. “Yes, yes of course.” She spun around to a small cabinet and rummaged through it briefly before turning back with a small bottle in one hand. In the other she held a small glass reminiscent of the shot glasses Petunia and her gossip friends used during their get-togethers. She poured a measure of the bottle’s content and stoppered it before holding the glass to his lips. “Drink this, please, Mr Potter.”

Harry obediently swallowed the foul-tasting liquid, gagging slightly at the taste but managing to keep it down. He let out a sigh of relief as the pain faded away, even if it surely was mostly his imagination. There was no way medicine worked that quickly.

McGonagall shifted where she stood. “I… You’re remarkably calm about this, Mr Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry said. He was tired of always being ‘boy’, ‘freak’ or ‘Potter’—with or without the ‘Mr’ attached. “And I’m used to it. It’s been a while since I messed up this badly, though. I mean, there was the zoo incident back in June, but that only got me locked up in my cupboard for about two weeks. I haven’t had anything broken or dislocated since I was nine.”

The room was so silent he was sure he could hear his own words echo off the walls.

“The worst kind of Muggle,” McGonagall whispered then, her voice barely audible. “I told him.”

“Excuse me,” Madam Grey said faintly, before stepping away and turning for the door. Halfway there she seemed to realise she was still holding the medicine bottle and returned it to its place in the cabinet before leaving the room.

Harry looked at the closed door for a while before turning his attention to McGonagall. “Did… Did I do something wrong, ma’am?”

She shook her head. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Mr… Harry. It is we who have failed you.”

While Harry couldn’t exactly disagree that somewhere _someone_ had failed him, he wasn’t entirely sure what McGonagall had to do with it. This was the first time he’d met her, after all. _I told him_ , she’d said. Told who? When?

With the pain quickly fading and nothing else going on, he looked the Deputy Headmistress over. She was… not _old_ as such, but older than Petunia. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a long, black cloak/dress or _robe_ as the Host had called that type of garment; earlier he’d seen glimpses of an equally long plaid skirt underneath it. Overall, she looked… dangerous. She was obviously not the kind of woman you crossed, but the firm set of her mouth didn’t remind him of Petunia’s disdainful pursing of her lips as much as it made him think of Mrs Grover back in his third year at school. She’d been strict, but she’d also been the only teacher who’d tried to talk to him about the Dursleys, who’d promised him she’d do her best to get him out of there. Then without warning she was gone, and the only thing they were told was that she’d been in a minor accident—nothing life threatening, of course, or so he and his classmates had been assured—that had forced her to retire just a few years early. He’d never heard from her again.

The door opened again, and Madam Grey came back followed by another woman. Her robes were the same shade of lime green, but the design seemed a bit different. Then again, that might not even matter. The unknown, dark-haired woman closed the door firmly behind them and waved her wand at it a little, though Harry couldn’t hear what she was mumbling. He did, however, note that her thick plait was just long enough that the tip of it was brushing the very end of her back.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter, though I wish it were under better circumstances,” she said when she was stood next to the bed. She made no move to offer her hand to shake, which was a relief since he wouldn’t exactly be able to take her up on such an offer. “I’m Healer Helena Aldaine. I would like to perform a full diagnostic scan on you, to document both current and past injuries and illnesses. Do I have your permission?” Her eyes, a light brown almost bordering on gold, met his steadily.

Was that why no one had offered to correct his shoulder or put his wrist in a cast? Except maybe they didn’t do that in a magical hospital anyway. Either way, Harry hadn’t minded quite as much, since they weren’t hurting him anymore. Magical medicine was definitely something other than what few paracetamol pills he’d been allowed in his life. “Sure,” he said. This must have been what the Being had meant.

Healer Aldaine smiled at him and waved her wand over him. “ _Praeteritum corporalis sanitas_ ,” she stated. Harry blinked, and was still trying to figure out what language she was speaking when a roll of yellowed paper appeared in the air, unrolling itself as the end of it all but poured down onto the foot of the bed. Peering closer at it he realised that words were being printed onto it. They were too small to be easily read, but as he squinted at it one sentence stood out—left arm broken—and he sucked in his breath, losing all interest in finding out what that list was of. He didn’t quite remember the occasion, as he’d only been four years old, but he remembered remembering it, if that made sense. After a few seconds of that going on, all three women in the room were staring at it, and none of them were looking especially happy.

Finally after what felt like hours—but as Harry was holding his breath almost the entire time, ever since that one caught sentence, it couldn’t have been more than a minute at the most—the roll seemed to reach its end and all of it fell down into the small pile on the bed.

“Merlin,” Madam Grey choked out, wringing her hands.

Healer Aldaine picked the paper up and started reading it. Or at least skimming it, judging by how fast she read. As she read, Harry could see her lips thinning more and more as she pressed them together. When she was done she rolled it up, and hadn’t it been for her entire body trembling Harry would have thought her calm.

“Mr Potter,” she said, sounding older than she had just a few minutes ago. “If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed the spell failed, or that it accidentally scanned someone twenty years older. The amount of…” She stopped and took a slow, deep breath. “My most sincere apologies for what you’ve lived through. Now, it’s your shoulder and wrist that are in more urgent need of treatment. I didn’t see any allergies on the scan; do you know of any?”

Harry shook his head, very cautiously so as not to jostle his shoulder; even if he didn’t feel it at the moment he didn’t want to make things any worse. “No, ma’am,” he said.

“Excellent.” She drew her wand and lightly touched Harry’s shoulder with her off hand—her right, he realised. “With the potion you were just given, this shouldn’t hurt a bit. If it does, tell me at once.”

Her words, while calm and polite, were also very firm, indicating it wasn’t just a platitude. Harry nodded and took a deeper breath than he would have dared without the pain meds. He watched as she moved her wand in a short, rapid pattern and muttered a spell under her breath. Despite what she’d said, he expected at the very least discomfort, but instead he felt everything in his shoulder relax so completely that she only had to nudge it a little to make it slide back into place. He blinked, peering at it curiously.

Rounding the bed, the healer leaned in to look more closely at his wrist. Her fingers slid lightly against his skin, barely brushing it. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with being touched in the first place, but… he also understood that it was her job, and at least it didn’t hurt. Another wave of her wand before she nodded and straightened up.

“You’re lucky, Mr Potter,” she said, and Harry almost snorted. Lucky? “It’s not a complicated fracture.” Oh. Well, he supposed it _could_ have been worse. “I will need you to hold absolutely still now.”

Harry would have nodded, but wasn’t entirely sure if that was included, so he didn’t. “Yes, ma’am,” he said instead, so quietly he wasn’t sure she heard him.

She nodded once, sharply, and then swished her wand at his wrist. “Ossio emendo,” she said, or at least that’s what Harry thought she said. There was the faintest sense of nausea as he thought he felt the bones in his wrist move, but it only lasted for a second or two before it faded.

Harry loved magic. He’d only heard of it a few days ago, but he knew right then and there that he loved it. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, doing his best not to show what he was feeling. He didn’t want to look foolish, and he certainly didn’t want them to withhold any treatment just because he looked like he wanted or expected it.

“You’re very welcome, Mr Potter. Just make sure you don’t strain your wrist overly much the next few days. I’ll prescribe a potion to help it heal without issue, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Her gaze flickered across the bed at McGonagall before returning to him. “I assume you’ll be wanting to press charges against the ones who did this to you?”

Oh. Harry looked up at McGonagall as well. “I… don’t know. All I want is not to have to go back there again.” Honestly, he would probably be better off in foster care. Surely it couldn’t be as horrible as the Dursleys had made it out to be, the way Aunt Petunia had sometimes lamented ever taking him on, saying she should have washed her hands of him at the very start. “Especially if I’m going to start at Hogwarts; they really hate anything that’s not normal. I’ve been yelled at for even mentioning dreams of unnatural things, like dragons or flying motorcycles.” Frankly, he’d much rather just have the dreams of and with the Being over normal dreams. Especially if they were somehow magic dreams of things that actually existed.

The healer did a double-take. Then she looked up at McGonagall, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Harry Potter lives with Muggles?” she asked, dangerously softly. “Magic-hating Muggles at that?”

McGonagall did look uncomfortable. “As far as I’m aware, they’re his only remaining relatives. There were wards put in place based on that, intended to… keep him safe.” Her voice lowered at the last three words, though Harry couldn’t tell if she was more ashamed or angry.

Harry did snort at that. “Safe? From what?” He lifted and waved his previously broken hand in case they’d somehow forgotten why he’d been brought here.

“His magical guardian is…?”

“Albus Dumbledore.” Dumbledore? Wasn’t that the Headmaster? Was he the _him_ she’d mentioned earlier, the one she’d told? And if he was, did that mean he’d actually placed Harry with the Dursleys? Without even once checking on him to make sure he was alright? Because surely he wouldn’t have just left him there if he’d known what was going on; no one would do that. Unless it was the other way around, that he had less legal power over Harry’s situation than the Dursleys did. He wasn’t sure which would be better, really.

The healer made a small sound in the back of her throat. “I see.” She looked at Harry again. “Could you tell me why you don’t know if you want to press charges, Mr Potter?”

Harry swallowed. Telling her would mean revealing some of his greatest fears, and that didn’t really seem like the smart thing to do. But on the other hand… He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look at her. “Because if I do and fail, it’d be even worse afterwards. Because I don’t want everyone to know. Because I don’t want to have to talk about what… about it all.”

There was the hissing sound of someone sucking in her breath, but Harry couldn’t tell which one of them it was. Unable to stand not knowing he opened his eyes again and saw Madam Grey staring at the healer with shock and alarm written all over her face. Healer Aldaine was pale, but shook her head. “The report indicated no such damages,” she said, apparently managing to interpret just what Madam Grey was thinking about. Then she looked at him. “Mr Potter, I know this is a sensitive question, but I have to ask…” Harry blinked up at her as she clearly steeled herself. “Did anyone ever… touch you inappropriately?”

Huh? Harry kept staring at her, no idea what she was getting at. They’d slapped and pinched him, of course. Vernon had taken his belt to Harry’s backside a couple of times. He’d been pushed and shoved without a care for his wellbeing. None of those were hardly ‘appropriate’, were they? But somehow he didn’t think that was what she was after.

She seemed to realise he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Did they ever say something or touch you in ways that made you uncomfortable even while you might not be able to point out the exact reason for it? Or say or do anything… of a sexual nature?”

Oh. Oh! Eyes wide, Harry quickly shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” In hindsight, he should have grasped right away what she wanted to know; he’d read enough psychology books that he knew things about sexual abuse he didn’t really want to know. But he’d never had any reason to connect that with the _Dursleys_. Thank God for small mercies.

The healer visibly relaxed. “Thank Merlin,” she murmured. Her brow twitched. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to diminish what you’ve gone through, Mr Potter. It’s just…”

Harry gave her a tight smile and shook his head, glad he’d never had any cause to worry about _that_ on top of everything else before. “No, I understand. I was thinking the exact same thing.” Well, apart from the figure being thanked. Did magical people really consider Merlin a god? “Do I have to press charges to avoid going back there? I mean, if you asked _them_ , they’d be the first to tell you they’d rather not have anything more to do with me at all.”

The healer and McGonagall traded glances, doing that female communication-without-talking that he’d seen evidence of from time to time, mostly between Petunia and Vernon’s sister Marge. _That_ had rarely resulted in anything good for Harry, and now too there was a tight knot in his stomach as he waited to find out whatever they were considering.

“I will bring it up with your magical guardian, Mr Potter,” McGonagall said finally, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure just what her words and tone implied. “And I will also make inquiries myself. I’m sure we can find someone you would be willing to stay with, and who would be willing to take you in and protect you in return, and if your relatives are amenable, which you seem to think they are, they can then sign over custody.”

Relief flushed through Harry’s system, mostly dissolving the knot in his stomach. Unfortunately, not all of it, because he still had questions. “My… magical guardian, ma’am? You mentioned it before, and told me his name, but what does a magical guardian do?”

Now it was their turn to stare at him with incomprehension.

“You’ve never met your magical guardian, Mr Potter?” the healer asked.

“They never _told_ you?” McGonagall added before Harry had time to answer the first question.

Harry shook his head. “No, to both. Like I said, they hate everything unnatural, and magic is definitely part of what they consider unnatural. I don’t even think they know it even…” He trailed off. No, there was no way they didn’t know something along the lines of magic existed. Not after the letters. Not after punishing Harry every time he did something unnatural.

“Don’t think they know?” McGonagall burst out. “Codswallop! Your aunt’s known since your mother was eleven and received _her_ letter of acceptance from Hogwarts.”

Harry swallowed and looked down at his hands. His two whole and unbroken hands. Magic really _was_ wonderful, no matter what the Dursleys thought. “Can I leave soon, ma’am? I mean, I have to get my supplies and…” Again, he trailed off. His lips twitched and a humourless chuckle escaped him. “I was just about to say that I needed to be back before Vernon got home to have a chance to finish some of my chores, but I… really don’t want to go back there.” He wasn’t going to, either. If they said he had to, he’d run away and live on the streets until it was time to go to school. It was only four weeks left, after all. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than staying with the Dursleys.

A second passed. Then, “And you’re not going to,” came McGonagall’s firm voice. “I’m the Gryffindor Head of House, and both your parents were Gryffindors. I am _quite_ able to let you stay with me until school starts.”

He looked up at her, his throat tight. Unable to form the words, he simply nodded at her, trying to convey his gratitude.

“And seeing as your current ailments are healed, I see no real reason to keep you here, Mr Potter,” said Healer Aldaine. She nodded at McGonagall. “Please feel free to contact me should you be in need of further assistance. Until Mr Potter or circumstances decide anything to the contrary, consider me his family healer.” She paused, her attention on Harry once more. “But before you leave, I would like to prescribe some nutritional potions and some calcium supplements. You are severely behind the weight and height curve for your age, Mr Potter, and your bones lack the proper density, which would explain why you broke your wrist so easily. I’ll also see about the diluted Skele-Gro.”

Harry pulled a face. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that I’m small for my age. Somehow I don’t think the usual excuse the Dursleys used that my parents were short is going to work on you the way it worked on the school nurses.”

McGonagall spluttered for a second or two. “Neither of your parents was ‘short’, Mr Potter,” she stated.

“School nurses?” the healer asked then, tilting her head just a fraction to the side. “Do Muggles nurse their children that much longer, then?”

It took Harry a moment to connect the dots in what she was saying. “Oh, no, nurses are… err…” His eyes fell on Madam Grey. “Well, I suppose they’re similar to Madam Grey. They assist doctors, err, healers, and take care of most anything that doesn’t require a specialist or prescribing medicine.” Strange. It almost seemed as though magical people knew just as little about non-magical people as the opposite way around.

“Ah, I see. Thank you for the explanation. And no, that ‘excuse’ most certainly won’t work.”

“Didn’t expect it to.”

She nodded. “You can follow Mediwitch Grey to get the potions; you’re to take three vials of the nutritional potion per day for a week, one after every meal, the calcium supplement once per day. The Skele-Gro should be taken in the morning for the next three days. I will be in touch at the end of the week.” She looked him over. “Is there _any_ residual pain in your wrist or shoulder? Or anywhere else?”

Harry shook his head, and he had no trouble smiling at her this time. “No, ma’am.” He lifted his hand and flexed it. “It’s amazing, really, how quickly it healed. Thank you.”

A small smile crossed her lips as she nodded back at him. “You’re most welcome.” She held out her hand, now that he was able to take it, and he did. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter, though I wish it was under much better circumstances.”

He squeezed her hand lightly before letting go. “Same to you, Healer Aldaine.”

She took a step back and turned to a small desk, grabbing a paper off a stack and an honest-to-God quill pen. Or should that be honest-to-Merlin? Scribbling something down with a scratchier sound than that from a Biro and yet with speed and ease that spoke of familiarity, she then held out the note to Madam Grey who took it.

“Mr Potter, Professor McGonagall,” she said with a nod to each, and then turned on her heel and left the room, sliding her wand up her sleeve as she went.

The mediwitch looked after her for a moment before turning her attention to Harry and McGonagall. “If you’d please come with me, Mr Potter, Professor,” she said, smiling at them. “I’ll give you the potions so you can leave.”

Harry hopped off the bed, but he didn’t have time to take a single step before McGonagall spoke up.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention Mr Potter’s name outside of this room. I’m sure we can all agree that it would be better if the public didn’t know that his re-introduction to the wizarding world started with a visit to St. Mungo’s.” Her smile was tight and her voice almost sharp.

Madam Grey blinked. “Of course, Professor.”

McGonagall then turned to Harry, and he had to hold back a flinch when she suddenly took a step closer, her hand coming up. He didn’t succeed, not if the crestfallen look on her face as she immediately stopped was any indication. “I’m sorry,” she said, much softer than her words to Madam Grey had been. When she started moving again, it was at a much slower speed, and Harry kept himself still as her hand went to his forehead, brushing at his fringe in an attempt to straighten it. Finally she stepped back and nodded before turning to follow the mediwitch.

While Harry wasn’t especially fond of his scar—though he doubted it came from the ‘car accident’ his parents had died in—he wasn’t entirely sure why McGonagall had covered it up. But he had a slow, sinking feeling that it had something to do with the way the mediwitch had glanced at his forehead and gasped. She had also known his name, though he supposed it _was_ possible McGonagall had mentioned it without him actually hearing it. He’d been pretty out of it back then. But in combination with how they didn’t want people to know that ‘Mr Potter’ was here, he had to wonder… how _had_ his parents really died? Had they been famous? Would people treat him differently if they knew his name?

Keeping his thoughts to himself and his eyes on the floor, he followed the two women out of the room and down a corridor that, while different and a lot less cluttered with technological gadgets, still managed to remind him of the hospitals he’d caught glimpses of in Aunt Petunia’s daytime soaps.

Madam Grey stopped at a non-descript door and went inside the small room on the other side. Harry could just about see shelves filled with various bottles, small and large, before the door fell closed behind her. He could hear faint clinking of glass against glass, and not many seconds later the door swung open again. McGonagall accepted a tray of tiny bottles, more closely resembling chemistry test tubes than bottles, waved her wand at it and made it shrink until the phials looked like they belonged in a doll house. She stuck it in her pocket, took the note Madam Grey held out—presumably a reminder of what should be taken when—before they said goodbye to the mediwitch and McGonagall led them out of the hospital.

Or, well, she led them to the entrance hall. Then, instead of stepping out onto the street she veered off into a side room, strangely lined with four lit fireplaces. Harry stared at them and then up at McGonagall. She didn’t seem to notice as she crossed over to a small, marked-off area along the wall opposite the fireplaces. Then she turned and held out her hand to Harry.

“Come, let’s go to Diagon Alley and get your school supplies.”

Harry hesitated. He did want his school supplies, but there were also so many questions he wanted answered, some of which he’d rather have answered before they went shopping. What if he came across a situation he didn’t know how to handle and was made fun of because of that? On the other hand, that would probably happen even if he asked his questions now, since he was sure the questions he had only covered a small portion of the magical society.

“Mr Potter?” McGonagall asked, sounding concerned rather than impatient. Obviously she’d forgotten her own instructions to the mediwitch about being discreet with his name.

“Please, call me Harry, ma’am,” he reiterated. “And… Is there anything you think I need to know before we go? I mean, I really don’t know anything more than what you put in the letters and what I’ve heard and seen today.”

“Harry, then.” She studied him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I suppose we should have a brief talk before going out into the public. This, however, is not quite the place for it. We’ll arrive at the Leaky Cauldron; I’ll request a private parlour there. It’ll give us more privacy.” Again, she held out her hand, and this time Harry approached her and put his hand in hers. She gripped him firmly, and once more Harry felt his world collapse as he was pulled through a too-tight tube, squished beyond all recognition only to be remade as they materialised elsewhere. He was starting to really hate the sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping things are making sense and I'm not skipping important information or contradicting what I've said earlier ^^; If you notice anything like that, do poke me about it so I can either clarify or fix the issue.


	4. Answers and Questions

_…in which Harry has a heart-to-heart with Minerva, meets his fan club, and is struck momentarily speechless._

 

Harry looked around the… pub, he decided it was, his hand dropping from McGonagall’s grip. Once more he felt as though he’d stepped out of the twentieth century and into medieval times. Tudor era, maybe? They stood in a relatively large room, the main feature of which was a blazing fireplace. What was it with witches and wizards and their obsession with fireplaces? It was in the middle of summer, for goodness’ sake! And yet, even as Harry thought that, he realised that the temperature in the room was comfortable rather than stifling hot.

“Wait here, please,” McGonagall said quietly to him and stepped up to the very old and very bald man behind the bar.

“Afternoon, McGonagall,” Harry heard the man greet her. “What brings you here today?” He could almost _feel_ the bartender’s gaze land on him, taste the curiosity in the air. Fortunately there weren’t that many people in the room, but all of them had fallen silent and were obviously listening to the conversation and trying to study Harry to figure out who he was. There was a group of old ladies in a corner, one of whom was holding her smoking pipe as she stared unabashedly at him. He was glad it wasn’t too brightly lit; it was easier for him to hide, even with the women sitting relatively close by. A short man in a top hat, who’d been talking to the barman until just now was paying more attention to McGonagall. A few others who seemed torn between the conversation and Harry.

“Hello, Tom,” McGonagall responded. “I’m escorting a young wizard whose parents were unable to accompany him,” she said, and wasn’t that an understatement if Harry had ever heard one? “But first I’d like to use one of your private parlours.”

“Sure thing.”

Harry couldn’t help but wince slightly as the man made his way to the opening in the bar. From the looks of some of the people in there, there’d be at least three ears pressed against the door to that so-called private parlour. Then McGonagall beckoned to him and he hurried over, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes and invite closer scrutiny.

The small sitting room they were led into was empty. Tom clicked his fingers and the fireplace burst to life, lighting up the parlour. Without a further look at either of them, the ancient-looking barman left the room and closed the door behind him. Both Harry and McGonagall looked at the closed door, and apparently she was thinking the same thing as he was, because she pulled out her wand from somewhere inside her cloak—cloak, robe, dress, whatever one wanted to call it—and waved it at the door.

“There,” she said, sliding her wand back into whatever pocket it had been in. “That should make sure no one can listen in.” She looked at Harry for a moment before gesturing to the armchairs by the fire. “Perhaps it’s best if we sit down.”

Drawing a deep breath, Harry nodded and picked one of the chairs for himself. McGonagall sat down in the one opposite. His head was spinning a little with all the information he’d had today, and he wasn’t entirely sure where to begin.

McGonagall cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but let me ask something of you first, Harry.” He nodded. “You said your relatives didn’t like talking about magic.” Understatement of the year, that was. Again, he nodded. “What do you know about your parents?”

The sinking feeling he’d had back in the hospital room was back. He swallowed and looked into the fire instead of at the woman. “Unless you count what the Dursleys told me, most of which was probably lies, I guess I don’t know anything.” He hesitated for a second, but decided she might as well know what they’d said. Who knew, it might make her more inclined to help him get away from them, and Harry was quite willing to take any advantage he could get, like the Being had suggested. “They told me they were alcoholics,” at that word he could hear McGonagall suck in his breath, but he didn’t stop to look at her, “and that they died—and nearly killed me—in a car accident, driving while drunk. That it was a shame they didn’t succeed and I came out of it with only a scar to show for it.” He gestured to his forehead to indicate which scar he meant.

McGonagall said nothing. After ten or more seconds of silence, he glanced over at her to find her staring at him, pale-faced and tight-lipped. Her lips parted, only to clench up again. He wasn’t entirely certain why the information would have affected her _this_ badly. Surely it couldn’t be worse than hearing about today’s injuries and that it wasn’t the first time, could it?

“The worst kind,” she finally got out, her voice a mere whisper. She broke off and looked down at the floor, taking a few, deep breaths. Then she looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Harry. It’s just… What happened back in ‘81 was such a… monumental event, and to hear it dismissed as a _car accident_ and your parents as _alcoholics_ …” She folded her hands in her lap, but the grip was far from relaxed, her right hand clutching her left almost tightly enough to whiten her knuckles. “I think I should start from the beginning.”

 _Yes, please,_ Harry thought, but said nothing.

“A number of years ago, before you were born, there was an evil wizard who called himself… Please understand, back then no one ever spoke his name because to do so was to draw his attention, and very few people dare to speak it even now.” She took another deep breath. “He called himself Voldemort.” The name was barely a whisper. “Most people just say You-Know-Who, or He Who Must Not Be Named, even today. He, and those who followed him, was working to kill all Muggles and in particular Muggle-born witches and wizards—that is, people like your mother, who were born in Muggle families yet were magical—for contaminating wizarding society. Your parents were part of a group fighting against him, and shortly after they had you they were forced to go into hiding. Unfortunately, they trusted the wrong person with the secret of where they were, and he betrayed them. You-Know-Who showed up at their home on Halloween in 1981. He killed your parents and would have killed you as well, but something happened. No one knows exactly what, since as far as we know you’re the only one who came out of there alive. The books say, though, that he cast the Killing Curse at you and it… bounced back onto him, leaving that scar behind. Headmaster Dumbledore’s best guess is that your mother’s love for you and desire to keep you safe was so strong that at her death, her magic helped to protect you.”

Harry stared at her, his jaw slack. Well. That… explained a lot. And at the same time, it created so many more questions. He licked his lips and swallowed to wet his mouth. “Oh. Wow. So… That’s why Madam Grey reacted the way she did? And why you didn’t want anyone to find out I was at the hospital?” McGonagall nodded. “I…” Harry shook his head. “I’d figured they probably weren’t alcoholics, and after finding out I was a wizard, I–” He cut himself off and rearranged his thoughts. The Being had been the one who’d suggested this, and he couldn’t very well say that, could he? “Well, I guess I assumed that one of my parents was as well, especially with how little the Dursleys liked to talk about them, and I wondered how likely a _car_ accident would have been. I still thought it’d been an accident, though.” What the hell was a ‘Killing Curse’, apart from the obvious? Whatever it was, it sounded decidedly nasty; he could almost hear the capitals in her voice.

“I see. Well, I didn’t know your parents as such. They were my students, not my friends, although I did meet them now and then even after they graduated. Be that as it may, I’m willing to talk to you about them and tell you what I do know.”

Harry’s chest ached and his eyes teared up. He nodded and whispered, “Thank you, ma’am.” While he didn’t love his _parents_ as much as the _idea_ of parents, good ones, he appreciated the offer more than he could find words for. “I… have one question, though. If no one other than me survived that, how is it that someone could write about what happened?” And that was another thing. She’d said books. Plural.

McGonagall frowned, looking somehow both thoughtful and disapproving. Harry hoped said disapproval wasn’t directed at him, or it could harm his chances of escaping the Dursleys. “I’m afraid I can’t quite answer that. Normally, I would have assumed someone had talked to you or your relatives about it, that you’d remembered what happened. But I can see that’s not the case. I suppose most of it is a mixture of deduction and guesswork.”

Harry sighed. “I suppose those books are very popular, then.” His parents, after all, had been heroes, his mother more so if hers was the magic that had defeated Voldemort. Although from what McGonagall had said, it seemed the books made it out that _Harry_ was the hero. That couldn’t be it, surely?

“I’m afraid so,” McGonagall answered. “I confess to owning one of them myself.”

He grimaced. “So short of officially denouncing them and giving the true story—which I can’t since I don’t remember it—there’s no way to get people to stop reading them.”

McGonagall stared at him for a few seconds, not quite as though he’d grown a second head, but close. “I must say, you’re more well-spoken than most of my first-year pupils,” she commented, revealing the reason.

Oh, right. Well, the Being had been influencing his vocabulary more than he’d realised, it seemed. Not so much before the arrival of their Host—unless you counted Harry’s researching the possible source of the dreams, which _had_ included a number of psychology books aimed at an adult audience—since they hadn’t been very verbal at that time, but the last two weeks or so? Being inside someone’s head clearly made it easier to pick up on speech patterns. But as he couldn’t very well _say_ that, he merely shrugged. “Never had any friends; my cousin drove them off by targeting anyone who dared to talk to me. So I spent most of my free time at school in the school library, hiding away with a book.” He hadn’t done that nearly as much as he claimed, but it made for a handy excuse.

“I see. Well, it’s a refreshing change, I have to say, though I can’t help but wish it had been for some other reason.”

Harry mentally shrugged. There wasn’t really much he could do to change his past. He’d much prefer to change his future. So he considered the situation. If he couldn’t _stop_ the books… “Are any of them focused on just me and my parents, or is it more books about Voldemort that spend like a chapter or less on what happened that day?”

“One of them is the latter, but the other two focus more on the Potter family.”

He nodded slowly, doing some more thinking. “Well, that would make them biographies, right? And those are usually either written about people who are long since dead or, with permission, about someone who’s still alive. Since they don’t have my permission to write about me or my family, and are obviously making things up, what can I do about it? Can I press charges on the author and the publisher? Or can I demand any royalties from those two books as it’s _my_ family we’re talking about?” Having money of his own would be quite useful.

Again, McGonagall was staring at him. “I… really don’t know, Harry,” she said hesitantly. “I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about it, either. The consequences might be troublesome, should you fail in the attempt, and due to your age it’s likely you wouldn’t be taken seriously.”

In other words, she wasn’t about to help him. Harry would have to work hard to convince her. He sighed. “I suppose so.” Could he get someone else to help him? What about his magical guardian? Surely _he_ would be more willing to help? Wasn’t it part of the job description? Not that McGonagall had actually told him what a magical guardian did, but he assumed being on Harry’s side was part of it. Of course, one could argue that taking care of Harry had been part of the Dursleys’ job description as well, and look how well that had turned out. No, his best bet would be to ask the Being what to do. That was the only person he could trust to be honest with him. As much as it/he could, of course.

They had been fleeing from someone, from something. Could it have been Voldemort who was after them? If so, surely the Being knew by now that Voldemort was gone. Maybe that had been why it/he’d convinced their Host to help it/him? Not that everything added up with just that. It/he’d said it/he wasn’t welcome at Hogwarts anymore, which was odd. And then there was the whole secrecy going on. Either the method employed was what would get them in trouble if someone found out, or there was something about the Being’s identity. Maybe it/he’d been one of Voldemort’s followers, but had defected and been forced to flee? How that had resulted in its/his incorporeal form, Harry didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask the Being about it, either. And if… If it/he had been one of his followers, perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to reveal who Harry was. Besides, hadn’t it/he asked him not to let it/him know who he was if he could help it? Maybe this whole thing would have to wait, after all, frustrating as it was.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” McGonagall said gently, but her words were enough to rouse him from his musings. She looked almost concerned, and he wondered if she thought he’d been thinking about the books.

He forced himself to smile at least a little. “Don’t worry. It was just an idea.” That seemed to make her feel better. He took a deep breath, trying to think about what to ask next. “So. My parents, especially my mum, were heroes, and the books–”

“Actually,” McGonagall interrupted, her tone somewhat embarrassed, “you’re the famous one.” Oh dear Lord… No, he was a wizard now. Dear _Merlin_ , he hoped that didn’t mean what he thought it would mean. “You did, after all, survive the Killing Curse–” Again he could practically hear the capitalisation of the words. “–which no one can figure out how it happened, and while the theory of your mother’s sacrifice is sound, it doesn’t detract from that simple fact. You survived something that no one else in the known history of magic has survived.” Her cheeks were rosier than normal, even accounting for the light from the fire. “You’ve become known as the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Oh Hell no. Groaning, he leaned forward and rested his head on his knees. “Great,” he mumbled.

He remained like that for a little while, and neither of them said anything. Grateful for the silence, he allowed the crackling fire to calm him down until he was ready to sit up. “Okay,” he said then, letting out a sigh. “Famous and likely to be accosted by strangers, check.” To be fair, it was marginally better than being abused, but he’d much have preferred to go ignored completely. “You never did say what a magical guardian’s supposed to do,” he said then. Perhaps nothing at all, but it was better to know than to guess.

“Oh, well… A magical guardian is assigned in those cases where a magical child is taken care of by Muggle parents or guardians. He—or she, but since I suppose you’re asking specifically about yours I might as well stick to the male pronouns—is responsible for making sure your magical abilities aren’t suppressed by your daily caregivers, checking…” She took a deep breath and seemed to steel herself. Her next words made it obvious as to why. “Checking up on you to ensure you’re not mistreated, and ensuring a magical education is provided once you turn eleven. He is responsible for managing your magical assets, whether this be seats on the Wizengamot, real estate or monetary assets, until you’re of age and ready to handle them yourself, whereupon control of said assets are to be handed over and the management thereof is to be accounted for and explained.”

Harry shuddered slightly. So on the one hand, this Dumbledore had completely failed to check up on him and making sure his magic wasn’t… “What does suppressing someone’s magic mean? That is, I understand the words, but in practice, where do you draw the line between suppressing and discouraging? When is he supposed to step in?”

McGonagall stared at him again, and Harry had the feeling he’d once again failed to act like a normal eleven-year-old. He didn’t care. He _wasn’t_ a normal eleven-year-old, and it was just as well they got used to that. “I… I have to say I’m not entirely sure, Harry. It hasn’t happened in a long time.” Harry tilted his head curiously, and fortunately he didn’t have to ask her outright before she went on, ”Suppressing in this case means that a child consciously or subconsciously holds back every expression of accidental magic, usually due to the circumstances of their life and fear of the consequences. To do so requires levels of self-hatred or self-loathing beyond what one can easily recover from. Unfortunately, the magic doesn’t go away, but starts to gather up. It mixes with those negative emotions and forms something of an entity of its own, and when it grows large enough it bursts through and goes on a destructive rampage, usually looking somewhat like a dark cloud. This may go on for a while, but eventually the deposit of suppressed magic becomes so great that it becomes… well, for lack of better terms a distinct, separate creature. An _Obscurus_. It leaves the child, who is then…” She trailed off, as though realising there had to be a reason behind Harry’s question, and the truth might be ‘too much for him’.

Harry was starting to have a bad feeling about the Being. It was a separate, incorporeal entity, vaguely cloud-shaped the way he’d been able to determine. But it/he had never seemed… dangerous, or destructive. Instead it/he had _helped_ Harry. So whatever it/he was, it wasn’t an Obscurus. Perhaps, without its/his help, what McGonagall had just described _would_ have happened. “Who is then…?” he prompted. He wanted to know what might have happened to him, had the circumstances been slightly different.

McGonagall sighed. She looked at him for a few seconds, as though judging his determination to know, but then turned her eyes to the fire. “The child, or Obscurial, is left either dead or completely devoid of magic. The separation, you see, is often violent and destructive, and even now no one knows for certain if it was the Obscurus itself that sucked the life out of the child together with the magic, or if the death was merely a casualty of the more physical aspects of the event.”

Harry chewed thoughtfully on his lip. He stared into the flames, thinking back. If the Being was real, which signs were starting to point rather firmly at, then… logically it/he had drawn from Harry’s strength, Harry’s _magic_ , that night. It had left Harry weak and feverish, but he’d recovered. He wanted to ask if it had ever happened that an Obscurus had developed a more friendly relationship with the child that was its source, but he didn’t dare to. That question would surely reveal too much, and he’d have to explain why he’d wondered that, which would likely have revealed that he had strange dreams. From there, the leap to discovering the Being was all too easy, and whether it/he was an Obscurus or not, Harry didn’t want to betray it/him. Still, if having part of his magic drawn out had made him ill, wouldn’t it stand to reason that having _all_ of one’s magic drawn out could lead to death all by itself?

“Thank you for telling me, ma’am,” he said. Dumbledore, it seemed, had narrowly escaped being guilty of that part. But he’d still failed to make sure Harry wasn’t mistreated. And apparently he had control over all of Harry’s assets? It wasn’t that much, surely, though the vault key McGonagall had said she’d brought with her implied he had at least some. He made a mental note to ask her about that later. “And the… audit? That’s the word, right? When control of any assets are handed over. What if there’s a disagreement on whether those assets have been handled properly?”

“Well, the audit is there to ensure that they have been handled properly. If there’s a disagreement, obviously there would be an investigation to see if the guardian could have _known_ their ward wanted things to be done a specific way. Everyone makes mistakes, after all, but if the guardian isn’t certain about a particular deal or investment, the correct solution would be to discuss that with their ward and ensure the ward approves.”

“Even if the ward is still underage?”

McGonagall nodded. “Even then. Ideally, they would work side by side in making such decisions, in order to teach the ward how it all works so he’s ready by the time he reaches his majority.”

So obviously the guardian wouldn’t be able to withdraw a lot of money and use them for his own purchases. That was good to know. But he needed to change the subject now, before she realised what he’d been worried about. “You said my parents had been… I mean, you’d been the Head of House?” He couldn’t remember the word she’d used, but he did remember that much, and surely that was something she’d like to talk about?

McGonagall nodded, to all appearances relieved of the change of topic. “They were both Gryffindors.” Right, that had been the word.

“What’s a Gryffindor?”

“Pupils at Hogwarts are divided into four Houses, depending on their strongest personality traits. Gryffindors are brave and straight-forward. Ravenclaws are book smart, and love to learn new things. Hufflepuffs are known for their loyalty and work ethics. And Slytherins are ambitious and achievement-oriented. The names are based on the four founders of the school, who sought to teach students of their own heart and inclinations.”

Well, just by those brief descriptions, Harry supposed he’d end up a Ravenclaw, especially after claiming to have spent most of his time in a library. Or Hufflepuff, he supposed. He did know how to work hard, even if it wasn’t by his own choice. And he definitely felt loyalty toward the Being. Would be hard not to, when it was his only friend. In a way, that made him somewhat reluctant—well, that and Dudley’s habits of driving away anyone who might want to talk to him—to make ‘new friends’ at Hogwarts.

“Of course,” McGonagall went on, “all those traits have backsides. Gryffindors tend to act first and think later. Ravenclaw has housed some quite eccentric people over the years, and they’re not always the most sociable bunch. Hufflepuffs rarely get credit for what they do and often end up overlooked. And Slytherins can be ruthless when going for what they want, and are often expected to cheat their way in life. They also, unfortunately, very often share the same views as You-Know-Who did.” The last bit seemed to be added almost reluctantly, though it wasn’t obvious if that was because she didn’t believe it or because it brought his parents’ murderer up again.

“He… went to Hogwarts?” Harry asked, trying to wrap his mind about the slightly expanded pictures of the options he’d have.

She considered it for a second or two. “I can only assume so. Like I said, the name people know him by is what he called himself, not the name his parents gave him. So if he went to Hogwarts, it wasn’t under that name and I can’t be entirely certain. Rumours, however, would have it that he did, and that he was in Slytherin.”

Harry nodded. Fair enough. He stared into the fire as he considered what he’d found out and what he was still confused about. “Um, Deputy Headmistress?”

“Call me Professor,” she said. “It’s how you’ll know me most of the time since I also teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod, filing the term away for later before moving on to the next question on his list. “In your second letter, Professor, you wrote that you’d be bringing my vault key. What did you mean by that?”

McGonagall frowned, then sighed. “I guess it would be too much to hope for that you’d have been told about that as well. Although in this particular case, it might actually not have been an entirely bad thing.” She cleared her throat. “You see, your father was… quite well off, though I don’t think your aunt ever knew that. As the only heir to their estate, you should have had access to a trust vault your entire life, but as your legal guardians your relatives would have had the right to withdraw money from it.”

That made the blood drain from Harry’s face. He could only too well imagine coming face-to-face with an entirely empty bank vault, the money used up by the Dursleys and none of it spent on Harry if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “Oh.” It took him a few moments to come up with anything more than that. “I guess it was a good thing they didn’t know about it, then,” he agreed with her earlier assessment. “Do you know how much there is? Will it be enough to pay for Hogwarts?”

McGonagall smiled. “I’m sure it will. There’s no tuition or boarding fee; the only things you need to pay for are the required books and other supplies. But if you want to know the exact sum, you’ll have to ask at Gringotts, as I’m not privy to that information. That’s also our first destination.”

“Alright, Professor.” He hesitated. “About how much do the supplies usually come to?”

“It varies, as each professor sets his or her own course books and the cost of the magical pet depends a lot on what type of animal you choose. But if you want to buy everything new, the cost should be approximately seventy Galleons, minus the pet. Some purchases, however, like your wand, don’t occur every year.”

Harry blinked. She hadn’t even paused to calculate that, unless she’d done so while talking about it. And it told him exactly nothing, since he had no idea what a galleon was. Wasn’t it some sort of ship?

“If you take more time and hunt for second-hand or otherwise cheaper products, you can almost halve that sum. Hogwarts does offer funds for those otherwise incapable of buying their supplies, and this year the sum of that comes to just under forty Galleons.”

Harry had a vision of Petunia dyeing Dudley’s old uniform grey, and shuddered. He really hoped her assumption that his money would be enough proved true, because he’d been in that situation before, and he definitely wasn’t keen on it again. Of course, second-hand didn’t automatically mean ‘Dudley’s cast-offs’, but it was difficult not to think of it as such. And suddenly he was impatient to see the contents of his vault—he still couldn’t quite believe he had a vault. A whole vault!—and didn’t want to sit around asking questions. He could ask more questions later, especially if he was to live with her for the next four weeks.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said. “I don’t think I have any more questions right now, and I’m sure you weren’t planning on spending the entire day helping me.” Most people assumed teachers got the entire summer off, but by overhearing conversations back in school, he’d learned that most of that time was spent planning upcoming lessons and doing all those other things people normally didn’t think about when they thought ‘teacher’. And McGonagall wasn’t only a professor but the Deputy Headmistress, _and_ the ‘Head of House’ for Gryffindor, which he assumed was something like a mini-headmaster for the Gryffindors, so he was certain she had plenty of things to do in preparation for the coming school year.

By McGonagall’s smile, he could tell she appreciated his concern. “I don’t mind, Harry. I became a professor because I wanted to work with children, after all. But if you’re ready to get your supplies, I suppose we should be going.”

They stood up and headed out, McGonagall drawing her wand again and waving it at the door before stepping through. No one had left the pub. In fact, more had arrived and most heads now turned in their direction as they came out into the main room.

“Thank you, Tom,” McGonagall said. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s no bother on my behalf,” he responded, giving her a toothless grin. Well, Harry supposed he might have some teeth left, but none that he could see. “Can I get you something before you go?” Tom asked then, probably seeing a chance of earning some money, before looking down at Harry. “What about you–” He paused, mouth still open, and Harry was treated to the information that he had at the most three teeth left. “Good Lord,” Tom gasped, just as Harry realised his gaze was directed firmly at his forehead, where he hadn’t noticed his fringe had at some point done its own thing and ceased covering his scar. “Is that…? Can it be?”

The entire room had gone very quiet, even more so than when they’d arrived. Harry fought the impulse to groan in resigned frustration.

“Bless my soul,” Tom whispered, but in the silence his words still carried. There was a slight lisp to his words—probably due to his lack of teeth—a tendency to make his S-es whistle just a little bit. “Harry Potter, here. It’s an honour.” Hurrying around the bar again, he grabbed Harry’s hand in both of his without so much as a by-your-leave and shook it. His grip was firmer than what Harry had expected from such an old man. “Welcome back,” Tom said, tears in his eyes. “Welcome back, Mr Potter.”

And then the others moved as well. Before Harry could say a single word, he was surrounded. McGonagall had to step in closer behind him to prevent being pushed away, and while he didn’t appreciate someone standing so close by, he’d rather it be her than a total stranger. Knowing he stood little chance to escape, Harry allowed his hands to be taken and shaken over and over again and let the words flow over him.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you at last,” said one.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did,” said another.

“Always wanted to shake your hand,” said a third.

The man in the top hat was so excited his hat fell off as he introduced himself, and suddenly Harry recognised him.

“I remember you,” he said in his shock. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

That set Mr Diggle off into another bout of excitement over being recognised, and Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t a good memory. Not with what Petunia had done once they got home.

The hands seemed to never end, and he was absolutely certain he shook some of them at least twice. And then a pale young man came forward, one who seemed eerily familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that Harry realised why he was familiar, and he found himself incapable to do anything but stare at him.

“P-p-potter,” he stuttered as he reached for Harry’s hand. There was a lurch in Harry’s heart, and it seemed electricity zinged through him to centre in the scar on his forehead. “C-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“Quirinus,” McGonagall said, her surprised interruption giving Harry some space to kick-start his brain again. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Harry, this is Professor Quirrell; he’ll be teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.”

“N-not that you’ll n-need it, of course,” Quirrell gushed, and Harry still couldn’t think of something to say. “Here to g-get all your equipment, I suppose? I c-c-c… am here to f-find me a b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the prospect, but Harry knew he had to be acting. There was no way their Host—Quirrell—would be scared of a vampire book, or even vampires themselves, not with the Being curled up inside his mind. It had to be as much a pretence as his stuttering.

“Nice to meet you, Professor,” he finally managed, just as the crowd pushed Quirrell aside. It was at least another ten minutes of shaking hands and trying to smile at strangers before McGonagall finally put her foot down.

“Enough!” she called out, her sharp voice making them all hush down, some of them even flinching. Maybe people she’d taught? “Please allow Mr Potter and me to get on with our business,” she continued when their attention was on her, but it was clear it was a demand rather than a request. And without waiting for a response, she took him by the shoulders and started to lead him out. One of the first women, Doris something, took her chance to shake Harry’s hand one final time before they were clear of the crowd and heading for the back door.

Harry came out in a small, walled courtyard, occupied by a few dustbins and nothing much else apart from a few weeds trying to break through the hard-packed dirt. He looked up at McGonagall in confusion as she pushed the door closed behind them and stepped around him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “That was a bit more than I expected, and I’m sure it was overwhelming for you.”

Harry scratched his head a little as he tried to relax after the ordeal. “A bit,” he admitted. “I’m not really good with large crowds like that.” Though to be honest the shock of seeing _him_ had been the hardest to deal with. “Is Professor Quirrell always that nervous?”

“Ah, yes, Professor Quirrell,” McGonagall said with a small sigh. “Poor man. He’s got a good mind—a Ravenclaw when he was a student—but he’s never quite been himself since he took that trip to the continent earlier this summer to get some first-hand experience to prepare him for his new job.”

Oh, so this was Quirrell’s first year teaching? That probably made it easier for the Being to remain hidden. “What happened?” Of course, Harry knew very well what had happened, but he wanted to know what the official story was.

“He hasn’t wanted to talk about it much, but he mentioned a run-in with vampires in the Black Forest.” So that was the supposed reason for him being here looking for books on vampires, then? “I can’t really tell you any details, you understand.” Under her breath, so quiet Harry barely caught it, she muttered, “Not that I understand it myself. Why would he switch from Muggle Studies to Defence after that?” Harry pretended he hadn’t heard it, but he remedied his earlier assumption. Clearly it wasn’t Quirrell’s first year teaching, at all. He only hoped things would work out for the best. McGonagall smiled at him and went on in her normal tone, “But I hope you’ll be patient with him and not make fun of his stuttering. He can’t help it.”

Make fun of… Harry couldn’t hold back his grimace of disgust. Not only would it be to make fun of the other two thirds of his dream self, but it would be bullying, and that simply wasn’t acceptable in Harry’s world. “I hate bullies,” he said firmly. After what the Dursleys had done to him, there was no way he’d be able to stand mocking someone, especially for something they couldn’t help. Getting back at actual bullies, however? _That_ he could well imagine. He idly thought about afflicting _Dudley_ with a horrible stutter, and that was a much more pleasant thought.

“Oh, of course,” McGonagall said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I just wanted to caution you to keep you from doing something like that by mistake.” Harry nodded his acceptance of her apology, and she smiled briefly before turning to the brick wall opposite the door. “Pay attention now, Harry,” she said, pulling out her wand. “This is the way to get into Diagon Alley. She gestured to the dustbin stuck against the wall. “If you count from the edge of this it’s easier to remember. Three up and two to the side.” As she spoke, she moved her wand along the bricks, and then she tapped the resulting brick three times with the tip of her wand.

Harry’s heart raced as the brick quivered and wriggled and vanished, quickly followed by the surrounding bricks until he was staring at an archway wide enough for two and tall enough that he could be sitting on McGonagall’s shoulders and still not touch the top of it. Through the archway, he could see a street he’d never spent a waking moment in that he could remember, and yet recognised and felt so at home in that it brought tears to his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to give a bit of a heads-up that my updating pace may slow down a bit sooner than I had anticipated: I had about fifteen chapters done (just needing a bit of polishing and beta-ing before posting), but then I realised that my timeline was wonky and I needed to switch some scenes around and otherwise mess with what I had, so now I only have nine or ten chapters done ^^; But I'm working on it, and hopefully the result will be better than what I started out with =)


	5. Diagon Alley

_…in which Harry spends more money in a day than he’s ever owned in his entire life, avoids talking about himself as much as possible, and gets his first birthday present._

 

Goblins, Harry thought, were the strangest creatures he’d ever seen. They were shorter and skinnier than he was—which said quite a lot about them—yet some of them sported quite impressive beards. The one leading him and McGonagall to what looked like an ancient mine cart didn’t. Griphook, as the other goblin had called him, was clean-shaven, which made his hooked nose the largest feature in his face. In a way, Harry was glad of that. Because had they all had beards, he might have thought he’d ended up in a weird retelling of Snow White. Especially since they were now in what looked like a mine, including the cave-like walls and everything lit up by flaming torches.

Then they got into the cart and it took off, and Harry forgot everything about Snow White. For the first time in his life, he realised just why everyone on roller coasters screamed and yelled; he wanted to do the same as they rushed through the tunnels, turning left or right without Griphook seeming to do anything to steer the cart. In one tunnel he thought he saw a burst of flame, but before he could turn to look more closely they were already past it. Did they have dragons here? The sign on the door _had_ warned thieves to beware, and perhaps… Then they shot through a cave with an underground lake—and Harry wanted to laugh at the thought of a secret underwater lake far beneath London—and filled with stalagmites and stalactites.

“You know,” he shouted at McGonagall to make himself heard over the cart’s rattling. “I always forget the difference between stalactites and stalagmites. Do you know?” Of course she’d know, but it was probably more polite to ask.

“Stalactites are the ones up top,” McGonagall replied simply. She didn’t look as thrilled by the ride as Harry was, and he left her alone in favour of simply enjoying himself.

They eventually stopped, next to a small door. Griphook climbed out and unlocked the door. Green smoke welled out, and Harry silently asked himself if it was some sort of extra precaution against break-ins. Had the door been opened without the right key, or possibly without a goblin present, would the smoke have been harmful? Or maybe it was some sort of preservative? Like magical moth balls. Not that one would need those for money, but it might be an automatic thing and… He got no further before the smoke cleared, and he stared, mouth open, at the piles and piles of money inside the vault. Forget asking how much money he had; this would last him through seven years of schooling and then some. Gold, silver and bronze coins lay in piles or stacks, and Harry couldn’t even begin to imagine how much that was worth. He hadn’t quite imagined that the vault would be quite so physical, or filled with actual money. Most larger purchases the Dursleys made were made through a credit card or cheque, not cash.

“Galleons,” McGonagall said next to him, pointing at the gold coins. “Sickles.” The silver coins this time. “And Knuts. Seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle.”

“So, um… There’s nothing like the Muggle credit card system?” he wagered, even as McGonagall handed him a small pouch. If he needed about seventy Galleons for all his necessary purchases, how was he to fit all that in this bag? And he definitely wanted to take out more than what he’d need today; there was no telling when he’d be able to get to the bank again, and he didn’t want to be left penniless—or Knut-less, he supposed—when he had money. How many Knuts in a Galleon did that make? Who had ever thought up such a complicated system in the first place?

“What card system?”

“Oh, err… It’s like a card you register when you buy something, and the shop gets the money directly from your bank account without needing to actually carry money with you.”

“Ah, not quite like that, no, but if I understand you correctly a key impression together with your signature on the receipt would do the same.”

Griphook, waiting by the cart, said nothing.

Harry paused, a handful of Galleons halfway to the bag. “Oh, so I won’t need to lug a bunch of heavy coins around?” That _was_ a relief.

“Well, I’ll be handing the key back to your magical guardian once we get back to Hogwarts, and–”

“Wait.” Hold on just a second. “Didn’t you say I should have had access to this vault my entire life?”

McGonagall blinked. “I did, yes.”

“But if the Headmaster holds my key, how can I have access to it?” There was a tight knot in his belly at the thought of needing money and being unable to get at it because the key to his vault was in someone else’s pocket and he couldn’t get to them to get his key in the first place. Like if he was forced to go back to Privet Drive. McGonagall had said she’d find a solution, but what if she didn’t? He wouldn’t be able to get to Hogwarts from there to ask the Headmaster for the key that _should_ be in his possession, which meant he’d be stuck with the Dursleys, and didn’t that thought just make him absolutely _sick_?

“Oh, well, I… It’s… I’m sure you could ask Albus to get you some money should you ever need it.”

Begging for his own money. No, thank you. “That’s not the point. What if he says no? The point is that it’s _my_ vault and _my_ key, and I shouldn’t have to ask someone else to kindly be allowed to use it. I might be better off just getting all of it out, then, and keeping it under my bed or something.”

“The boy is correct,” another voice spoke up, and it took Harry a few seconds to realise that Griphook had joined the discussion. Perhaps it was the threat of Harry closing the vault down that had prompted it? “While his use of the Potter family vault is restricted until he’s an adult, that is not the case with a trust vault. If that is Mr Potter’s wish, the key should be in his sole possession.”

Relief and satisfaction warred inside Harry, and he gave the goblin a grateful smile and nod. “Thank you, Mr Griphook,” he said. “And yes, that is my wish.” He looked up at McGonagall, who seemed equally torn between emotions, though in her case it seemed those emotions were denial and anger. Harry had one final argument, though. “Or are you and Headmaster Dumbledore intending to treat me the way the Dursleys did?” It was mean, but it was also honest. Keeping control over Harry’s money and forcing him to beg the use of it was just as mean-spirited and controlling as some of what the Dursleys had done to him.

Cruel or not, honest or not, it had the desired effect. McGonagall grew pale as her eyes first widened and then narrowed. “Of course not, Harry! I’ll explain it to Albus, never you fear. I’m sure he just wanted to hold it out of concern that you’d either lose it or spend all your money at once.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you. And I wouldn’t.” Though on second thought, the temptation to splurge was there. “If it eases your mind, I can promise to discuss any larger purchases with someone first. Either the Headmaster or whoever ends up as my Head of House.” He’d also make sure to keep careful record of everything purchased, just to make sure no one could claim he spent his money frivolously.

After a few moments, McGonagall nodded. “Thank you, Harry.”

Relieved that he wouldn’t have to account for all his purchases through cash payments, Harry still shoved a handful of each type of coin into the bag before sliding it into his pocket. There was at least one good thing with Dudley’s oversized clothes. They also had oversized pockets, and he had no problems fitting the bag in there. There wasn’t even a noticeable bulge on his leg.

He stepped out of the vault, and Griphook closed and locked it. They all got into the cart and the whole trip started again, only this time in reverse. Harry made an attempt to look for that side passage where he thought he’d seen the fire, but either the situation had changed or the route was different because he couldn’t even pinpoint where it had been.

They came back to the entrance, and Griphook—with a slightly pointed look at McGonagall—handed the key over to Harry.

“Thank you, Mr Griphook,” he said, clutching the key for a second or two before slipping it inside his other pocket, just to make sure it didn’t fall out if he needed his money, or vice versa. He probably should find some sort of necklace to hang it on, to keep it even more safe. Or a keychain, though that wasn’t too likely he’d find here.

Griphook nodded at him, but seemed a goblin of few words as he only took them out through the doors and into the entrance hall of the bank before heading off behind the counters and leaving them alone.

“I’m sorry about comparing you to them,” Harry said quietly before McGonagall had time to start moving. He’d been thinking a little during the ride back, and it _had_ been rather mean to say what he’d said, especially without an explanation. “It’s just… I’ve never before had anything that was mine, and I’ve had things denied me in the past, had things be privileges that other people probably see as rights. Food, bathroom visits, a good night’s sleep. I can’t… I _won’t_ go through that again.”

McGonagall’s eyes were blank and shiny as she slowly reached out to squeeze Harry’s shoulder—his left one, and he was relieved to find it didn’t hurt at all. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t really need to. She nodded at Harry, squeezed his shoulder once more, and then let go. Harry nodded back, and they headed for the exit.

Without warning, McGonagall stopped mid-stride, causing Harry to walk into her. Confused, he looked up around her. And up. His eyes widened as he realised the man coming into the bank was almost twice as tall as a normal person, and at least twice as wide, too.

“Professor!” he boomed, a grin splitting his hairy face in two. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Hagrid,” McGonagall said with a nod and, it seemed, a small smile. “Nor did I expect to see you.”

“Oh, I’m here on an errand for Dumbledore,” the man, Hagrid, said, and it seemed as though he was making an effort to speak quietly. It didn’t have much effect as such, but at least he wasn’t shouting. “About the You-Know-What.”

The what-now? Harry held his breath, hoping to find out more, but McGonagall shook her head. “Really now, Hagrid. That’s not a discussion to be held here. You go do your errand and go straight on back home.”

It was strange, seeing such a large man look sheepish and hunch his shoulders. “Yes, Professor,” he said, carefully side-stepped them and headed for the counters.

McGonagall sighed and shook her head again. “The day that man learns discretion,” she mumbled to herself, and while Harry wanted to ask what she meant he judged it was better not to. But if Hagrid was running errands for the Headmaster, maybe Harry would see him at Hogwarts some time? And maybe he could ask the man then. If what McGonagall had just said was true, he’d be more likely to get some information out of _him_ than her. “Come on, then, Harry. You have some shopping to do,” she said as she led him out into the sunlight. Harry looked over his shoulder just the once, and saw Hagrid duck through the doors Harry and McGonagall had just come from. Whatever he was there about, it probably had to do with going down to the vaults.

A few shops down the street, she stopped. “I think you might do well to start with your robes.” She gestured to a small shop, the window occupied by two robe-clad mannequins. The sign above the door and window proclaimed ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions’ in cursive letters. “I… Do you think, perhaps, you could handle that on your own? I might need something to settle my stomach after that ride.”

Harry looked up at her. She looked just as composed as ever, but then again he’d rarely asked or received explanations for the actions of adults around him, and he wasn’t about to start demanding them now or asking if she was lying to him. If she was, she’d hardly tell him so, would she? “I don’t mind,” he said instead. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to get his stuff? Presumably they were prepared for hundreds of students getting the same things, and while he might not know his size—if they even used the same sizing system—it shouldn’t be that difficult to ask.

“Thank you, Harry,” McGonagall said with a small smile. “If I’m not back by the time you’re done, please wait inside the shop.”

Harry nodded and she turned away, heading back toward the wall they’d entered the alley through. Harry, instead, turned to face the shop. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, a bell chiming above his head as he did so.

A short but hefty witch dressed in light purple robes—or a dress; he honestly couldn’t quite tell—came up to him with a bright smile on her face. “Hogwarts, dear?” she asked him.

Harry nodded, and opened his mouth to ask if it was possible to get more than just his school clothes but before he could speak up he was ushered toward a corner of the shop where another boy was standing on a stool, another witch crouched down as she hemmed the robes up around his feet.

He stepped up on the available stool and was just about to ask again when a black tent—or that’s what it felt like—was dumped over his head. He wriggled his arms into the sleeves and merely sighed as the mauve witch started to pin his hem up.

“Hullo,” the other boy said before Harry could work up his courage to tell the witch he wanted more than just his school robes. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry responded, and a faint smirk spread on the boy’s lips. He listened as the boy went on about his parents a bit and how unfair it was that he wasn’t allowed to bring a racing broom to Hogwarts. Harry wasn’t particularly keen on the boy’s expression and attitude, as it somewhat reminded him of Dudley—had Dudley had any sort of self-restraint and comportment, that was.

“Have _you_ got your own broom?” the boy asked him then.

“No, not yet,” he answered. He had no idea if he’d even want one, but he wasn’t about to admit it out loud. Not when this boy seemed so certain that everyone should already have one and obviously need it with them to Hogwarts.

“Do you even play Quidditch at all?” the boy sniffed.

“No,” Harry began. “Can’t say–”

“ _I_ do,” the boy interrupted him most rudely, the way Dudley always did. Forget that thought about comportment. Clearly he had very little of it if he thought it was fine to interrupt someone else. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House, and I have to say I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

How could he? “Not really, but–”

Again, the boy interrupted, going on about how he was certain he’d end up in Slytherin but that any House was fine as long as it wasn’t Hufflepuff. Harry thought back to what McGonagall had said about them. Slytherin: Cunning and ambition, but also ruthlessness. Hufflepuff: Loyalty and a willingness to work hard, but also little to no ambition to take credit for that work. Rather the opposites, then, weren’t they? Suddenly, Harry rather wished he wouldn’t end up in Hufflepuff either, just to avoid being taken advantage of—again!—by people like the Dursleys. By people like this boy.

“I think I would, yes,” Harry therefore agreed to the boy’s statement about leaving if he ended up in Hufflepuff and demand for affirmation from Harry. Of course, leaving would mean he’d end up back at the Dursleys’ anyway, and would keep living the Hufflepuff life, as it were. So on second thought he probably wouldn’t leave Hogwarts, but he wouldn’t exactly be happy either. “What do you most look forward to with Hogwarts, then?” he asked, feeling a need to break the pattern of their conversation so far. Plus it might give him more information on what was to come. After all, the boy seemed to like hearing his own voice, so he was sure to be given an extensive answer.

The boy blinked and seemed to actually need to think about it for a second or two. “A lot of things,” he said then. “Potions looks promising; my father knows the Professor, so I’m sure I’ll do well.” Wait, had he just suggested he’d be given an easier time in classes because of his father? Well, maybe the claim to end up in Slytherin wasn’t too far fetched, then. Who else would be that eager to use anything and everything to his advantage? “I’m not so sure about Charms and Defence; I’m sure I could learn most of that at home with tutors anyway.” Did that mean his family was rich? Was Harry rich? His vault had, after all, contained a lot of gold, and even counting off seventy Galleons per year, for seven years, he was sure there’d be a lot more remaining. And according to Griphook there might be even more money that he wouldn’t be able to access until he turned seventeen. “But I think most of all, I’m looking forward to making connections with other important people. Cultivating friendships with those who will become important in the future will mean a lot more once they do become important.”

Harry was sure that sentence didn’t make as much sense as the boy had intended it to. A sinking realisation also said that he was probably one of those with whom the boy would like to ‘cultivate a friendship’.

“What about you, then?” the boy asked, and Harry had to think quickly. He couldn’t very well tell the truth, could he? Or could he? No, not quite yet.

“Learning magic, for one,” he said instead. “Making sure people like and respect me for what I do instead of who I am and who my parents were.” There were suddenly pink blotches on the boy’s cheeks, and Harry had to keep himself from making it obvious he’d noticed them. He hadn’t intended it as a stab at the boy’s over-reliance on his father’s influence, only that he didn’t want people to befriend him because he was Harry Potter, but he wasn’t going to apologise.

“Were?”

If nothing else, the boy was quick to ferret out something to change the subject with. Harry nodded. “They’re dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said the boy, though his tone was nowhere close to expressing the same sentiment. “But they were _our_ kind, weren’t they?”

Our kind? Suddenly Harry felt there were a lot of things he’d missed asking McGonagall about simply by not knowing he ought to ask those questions. Like what things looked like now, if his parents had been killed ten years ago because his mother was Muggleborn. He’d assumed it was just a single madman, but maybe it was more of a political divide? “They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean,” he answered.

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in,” the boy confided, going on to complain about how the ‘wrong’ kind didn’t even know about their magic until they were told about Hogwarts, and if he’d wanted to pay Harry back for the comment about parents, he certainly succeeded. Only… Harry didn’t think he even knew about it, and he did his best not to show any reaction. He thought he managed it quite well, but then again he had experience in not showing anything of what he really thought. He certainly no longer felt the need to apologise for what he’d said. “What’s your surname, anyway?” the boy continued.

That was a question Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure if it was ‘good enough’ for someone with this boy’s opinions, and on the other hand, it’d mean revealing who he was which would most likely end up in another let-me-shake-your-hand session or five as the word spread.

“That’s you done, dear,” the witch at his feet said suddenly, and Harry would have loved to jump down and run away from the conversation with the boy, except…

“Well, yes, but I’d like to get some more clothes other than just my school robes, ma’am.”

“Oh!” the witch said, a small frown detracting from her previously cheerful expression. “You should have said so, then.”

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes—even if these people weren’t the Dursleys, he still didn’t know how they’d react to such rudeness. He _had_ tried to say so, but she’d been too busy to pay attention. “I just did, ma’am,” he said instead, doing his best to sound polite.

The witch snapped her fingers, and a roll of measuring tape came up on its own. Harry blinked and obligingly spread his arms as it zipped around him taking all kinds of measurements, the results of which seemed to be taken down automatically in a notebook. “What were you thinking of getting?”

Oh. Um… “Three shirts and trousers.” He hesitated, not wanting to really talk about underwear. Could he stand…? No, if he had another choice, he didn’t want to wear Dudley’s old and worn out underwear a single day longer. “Might as well make it underwear and socks, too.”

“Boxers or briefs?” she asked him, and it took all his concentration not to blush and fidget. Especially since he was aware of the other boy trying very hard to look as though he wasn’t listening.

“Three of each,” he decided. He wasn’t sure, after all, which he’d prefer. Honestly, he’d just be happy to get rid of what he was currently wearing, and he’d be happy to never have to touch Dudley’s worn-out pants ever again, with their holes and skid-mark discolouration.

“Which materials and colours would you like for your clothes?”

Good thing she’d specified, or Harry would have assumed she was still talking about underwear. Still… he’d never been allowed to choose the colour of his clothes before. Usually it was just handed to him as-is, and he just had to deal with it. The power of being given a choice was heady and also somewhat confusing. With all options open, which one should he pick? “Green,” he blurted out, picking one at random. Or maybe not so random, considering his eye colour. “I want one green shirt,” he then clarified. For some reason, that decision seemed to please the other boy, though Harry had no idea why. “White and grey for the other two,” he settled on, figuring he couldn’t make _all_ his new clothes bright and colourful. “Dark grey,” he corrected. He didn’t want to risk ending up with the same colour as that elephant skin hanging to dry that Aunt Petunia had said would be his school uniform at the school he’d thankfully never have to go to. “Just cotton should be fine.” He had no idea if they had stuff like polyester or if the alternative were outlandish things like silk or velvet.

“Right you are,” the witch smiled. “And trousers?”

“Err… Black or grey, I suppose.” He’d simply not wear the grey with the grey shirt.

“What about dress robes or everyday robes? Will you be wanting any?”

Dress robes? Oh dear L… Merlin, what were those? “Not right now,” he decided. If he wanted those later when he found out what it was, he could always come back, couldn’t he? As for everyday robes, he had his school robes, didn’t he? And as far as he knew, Hogwarts was a boarding school, so he wasn’t likely to need any other robes until next summer, right?

“Very well,” she said, still smiling at him.

Silence seemed to descend once more, leaving him open to the question he’d been asked earlier that he still didn’t want to answer. Damn it, maybe he should have asked for more robes anyway, just to extend the conversation? Surely she’d have asked him more things then?

“I might need new shoes as well,” he threw out, trying his best not to sound desperate to prolong the conversation. “Where’s the best place to go for that?”

“Oh, we can take care of that as well,” the witch said brightly, probably eager to make more money. “Any particular style?”

“Not really,” Harry said, not wanting to admit he had no clue about styles to begin with. “Just comfortable everyday shoes. Oh, and winter boots.”

“We’ll take care of that, no worries, though they won’t be finished until tomorrow.” Finished? Did that mean they _made_ the shoes and boots to order? “We’ll deliver them, of course. Where should I send them?”

“You can send them to me at Hogwarts, Madam Malkin,” another voice broke in, and Harry looked up at McGonagall. He hadn’t even heard the door. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Oh!” the witch exclaimed. “Professor McGonagall, I wasn’t aware…” She trailed off, shook her head, and smiled again. “Of course, if it’s no problem for you.”

“None at all,” McGonagall confirmed. “Are you done, then, Harry?”

Harry looked to the witch who nodded. “I guess I am,” he said, stepping down from the stool and approaching the Professor. Did that mean they’d send all the clothes to Hogwarts? It would be easier than carrying them around, he supposed.

But as he got closer, McGonagall held out her hand. Not for him to take, no. There was a box in her palm. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said softly.

Wide-eyed, Harry took the box. It was an odd, old-fashioned one. Like a miniature chest. It even had a miniature lock, and there were tiny letters on the lid. H.J.P., he interpreted, squinting at them. He was just about to try opening it, when McGonagall spoke up again.

“Put it down,” she told him. Confused, Harry did as she said, looking up to find she’d drawn her wand. Then she crouched down and tapped her wand on the box, and Harry was forced to jump back as it rapidly grew in size until it was big enough for him to hide inside. “I wanted to get you something useful, and you will need one of these at Hogwarts, after all. It’s got two compartments—one for books, since you said you read a lot—as well as lightweight charms on it, and you’ll only need to tap your wand against it to shrink or grow it, to make it easy to transport.”

Swallowing his speechlessness over his first ever birthday present—or at least the first one he could remember, since theoretically he might have gotten some on his first birthday, before he ended up with the Dursleys—he looked up at McGonagall. “Thank you, Professor,” he managed, trying to convey with his expression how much it meant to him. He wasn’t too keen on letting anyone else in the room know, especially not that boy.

“You’re very welcome, Harry,” she replied, with that small smile of hers that softened her usual stern expression just a little bit.

He opened the trunk, and blinked down into its innards. Hadn’t she said it had two compartments? This one did have a few half-drawer, half-shelf bits on one side, but he didn’t think that quite warranted…

“Slide that switch on the edge over,” she suggested quietly.

It took Harry a few seconds to locate the switch she was talking about, sunken into the upper edge of the siding, just a scant inch or so from the locking mechanism. To be honest, he’d assumed it was part of the locking mechanism until she’d mentioned it. Cautiously he slid what looked like a bolt lock over to the other end of the indentation, and then blinked and sucked in his breath sharply as the insides shimmered and folded aside to reveal… He blinked. Suddenly, the chest was very shallow. It couldn’t fit very many books like that, could it?

McGonagall’s hand came into view as she reached down and pressed on one of the planks of the ‘bottom’. There was a faint click, and as she removed her hand the whole plank rose upward to reveal it was the top of a four-shelf bookcase. And not only was the bookcase taller than the trunk was deep, the shelves themselves were also deeper on the inside than the top and sides indicated.

“It’s like a Tardis,” he breathed. Old Mrs Figg had sometimes been watching Doctor Who when he’d been over, but of course the Dursleys had never even acknowledged that the series even existed. Too unnatural for them. That hadn’t kept Harry from enjoying every minute of the series, even the oldest, black-and-white episodes. Mostly because they were such a wonderful reprieve from her monologues about her cats. He looked up at McGonagall now, who was looking back at him with a slightly confused look in her eyes. “Bigger on the inside, I mean.”

McGonagall smiled at that. “Well, yes. It’s more or less standard with book compartments; Ravenclaws still manage to fill them completely, I’ve heard, and need to request ones with additional space. Ah, I see Madam Malkin is ready with your clothes. Best turn it back to the other compartment.”

Biting his lip slightly, Harry put his hand to the top of the shelf. He pushed downward, just a bit too hard, and the bookcase shot down and slid into place. If the other three planks worked the same way, that meant he had four bookcases and more room for books than he could imagine ever needing. Of course, he’d eventually have seven years of books in it, wouldn’t he? So maybe he would need it, after all. He flipped the switch over to the main compartment, just in time for the squat, mauve witch to dump a stack of neatly folded clothes into it. He looked up in time to see another stack come floating, a very Halloween-y black witch hat on top of it, and he wanted to laugh in delight over the wonders of magic. Instead, mostly because everyone else seemed to take it as matter-of-fact, he merely watched the witch—Madam Malkin herself, apparently—flick her wand and send the second stack into the trunk.

“You’ll have the shoes and boots by tomorrow afternoon,” she assured him. “All in all, that’ll be sixty-four Galleons and one sickle.”

Harry still had no idea how much a Galleon was worth in pounds, but it sounded like a lot. Either way, it was more than he’d taken from his vault, far more than he could have fit in the money bag he’d been given. It was a good thing he had his key instead. He wasn’t too keen on giving his signature as well, especially if it brought on unwanted comments about his supposed fame, but… there wasn’t much choice. Smiling just a tad nervously at Madam Malkin, he pulled out his key.

“Oh, of course, right this way,” she said and led him to a desk that probably served as both work table and cashier’s counter. She pulled out a rolled-up paper and held it open for him. “Just press your key against it, and then sign.” She nodded to a quill that sat nearby.

Just press his key? No ink or anything? He shot a brief, desperate glance to the woman’s face, but she didn’t look like she was pulling his leg, so with a silent prayer that it’d work he did as he was told. For a heartbeat, he worried that he’d done the wrong thing, but then he saw black ink sink into the paper and when he lifted his key off it there was a perfect replica of it. Huh.

Sliding it back into his pocket, he grabbed the quill. He wanted to ask her if she had a Biro instead, but he didn’t want to stand out more than he already did. He _wanted_ to fit in, to be one of them. And that, apparently, included using these quill pens. He did, however, hold his breath as he painstakingly wrote his name, only letting it out once he was done without leaving large ink spots all over everything. It was far from his best handwriting, but it was legible at least.

He glanced up at the sharply indrawn breath from Madam Malkin, and found her looking at his signature with large, round eyes.

“Please don’t,” he begged her in a quiet voice. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want a fuss made.” She looked at him, blinked a few times. “In fact, I’d rather prefer it if no one knew I was here. At least not until I’ve gone home.”

Her eyes widened again, this time with an accompanying smile. “Oh, of course.” She patted his hand lightly. “Don’t you worry. I fully understand why you want your footwear sent via the Professor, too.” Harry wasn’t sure she did, but he’d let her think what she wanted.

“Thank you, Madam.” Then he remembered what he’d decided back at the bank. “Oh, and would it be possible to get a copy of the receipt? It’s fine to send tomorrow; it’s just so I can keep track of how much money I spend and on what.”

“Oh, naturally, naturally. I’ll make sure it’s there.” She let the paper roll up again, tapped it once and a ribbon appeared and tied itself around it. She tapped it again, and the roll vanished. Harry looked at the spot where it’d been for a second or two before returning to McGonagall.

She looked him as though quietly asking whether he was finished, but without Harry needing to say anything about it she shrunk the chest down with a tap of her wand. Harry bent down to pick it up. sliding it into his pocket. The same one that held his key, as he feared it wouldn’t fit in the same one as his money, despite the size of his pockets.

“Again, thank you, Madam,” he said politely to the shop owner, nodding at her. He didn’t quite feel comfortable with the wizarding society to attempt a bow, especially as he didn’t really know the rules for when bows were appropriate. Yet another thing he needed to know.

Madam Malkin beamed at him in return. “Quite welcome, quite welcome,” she replied. “And thank _you_ for your patronage. Please don’t hesitate to come back if there’s anything else you need.”

Harry nodded again, and then looked over to the boy who seemed to be about done as well. “I guess I’ll see you at Hogwarts,” he said, and without waiting for a response he followed McGonagall out of the shop.

Once outside, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. Hopefully the rest of his shopping wouldn’t be quite that stressful. Then again, it would hopefully not include quite as much personal interaction with the shop owners. He’d be just fine if it could be like grocery shopping for the Dursleys. Just pick the stuff he wanted, hand over the money—or in this case key and signature—and leave. He re-evaluated his decision to use key and signature for most purchases. He didn’t really have _that_ much money with him, but perhaps he should consider using that for the less expensive items? And leave signing things, and thus revealing who he was, to the things he couldn’t afford to pay for in cash?

“Ready to move on?” McGonagall asked him, and he shook himself and nodded. “I do apologise,” she said then. “I didn’t even think to pack some of your clothes when I took you from your relatives. If you want to go back there and–”

“No,” he said hurriedly. Realising he’d interrupted her, he looked down. “I mean, no thank you, Professor. I don’t really have anything. It’s all… It’s all my cousin’s, and while he’s outgrown them, I… haven’t exactly grown into them.” It was painful to admit, but true. Harry doubted he’d _ever_ grow into Dudley’s old clothes.

He could almost _feel_ her eyes on him, and didn’t look up. After several, long seconds, she sighed. “Again, I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, Harry. Somehow, I’ll make sure you get some sort of restitution.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Professor,” he said quietly. He hoped she’d keep her promise, and so far he’d had a good enough impression of her that he didn’t automatically distrust her, but the only one he’d really trust to keep a promise to him was the Being. He looked up and forced a small smile. “What’s next, then?”

She didn’t smile in return, but she looked… less upset. “Books and stationery, I’d suggest. They’re right next to each other, just there across the street.” She gestured across and a little bit further back toward the bank. Harry nodded and followed her there.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have any normal pens at Scribulus Writing Supplements, but he did find a notebook that would be perfect for writing down his expenses in. He also found ink that changed colour as you wrote and couldn’t resist buying it. He carefully stored the bottles of ink and quills and rolls of parchment—not paper—in one of the drawers on the side of the main compartment of his trunk. They too, just like the bookcases, turned out to be slightly deeper than they ought to have been. Later he’d go through his clothes and put some of them in drawers. Like underwear and socks, which he didn’t exactly want on display whenever he opened his trunk.

Next was Flourish and Blott’s and his textbooks. He was sorely tempted by the books on various curses and hexes, but the look on McGonagall’s face steered him away from those before he could linger overly long on them. Instead he got himself a book on wizarding etiquette and the one book about himself that was more focused on Voldemort. While he wasn’t too sure it would be correct, he rather wanted to know what was said about the wizard. Especially if the Being had been a follower of his. He couldn’t very well ask it/him about it all, could he? Not without being given leave to do so. It’d be as rude as someone asking Harry about his parents and how they’d died.

Just next to the counter he found a small selection of school bags, everything from more upper class leather satchels to simple cloth bags in various colours—“Guaranteed not to break under the weight of your studies!” a note said. While he liked the look of some of the leather bags, he was a bit worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep such an obviously expensive item. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better to go for the sturdy item that looked ratty and weird than the posh thing everybody would want. While Hogwarts hopefully wouldn’t have a Dudley out to get Harry specifically, there were bound to be at least a few greedy bullies who wouldn’t think twice to ‘convince’ a poor firstie to hand over his bag or suffer the consequences. So instead he went for a somewhat fun striped bag in several muted shades.

Unfortunately, unlike the writing supplements, the books had to be paid for with key impression, and he was once more required to ask for some discretion. He wanted to inform them that he did _not_ approve of the two so-called biographies on the Potter family (and him and his parents in particular), but he held his tongue. It would likely raise more questions than he was ready to answer, and it was probably something that was better solved in some other way. So instead he merely put his books somewhat haphazardly—he’d sort them later—into the book compartment of his trunk and left the bookshop.

He couldn’t keep himself from pausing and staring into the dingier alley the Host had entered the last time they’d been there. “What’s in there?” he asked McGonagall, part of him itching to go in there and see if it really was the same as in his dream, the way Diagon Alley was.

McGonagall glanced at where he was looking, and stiffened slightly next to him. “That, Harry, is Knockturn Alley. It’s not somewhere I’d recommend going, especially not until you’re of age. You’re more likely to end up hexed and dying than to come out with anything of value.”

Huh. That hadn’t quite been the impression Harry had gotten last time, but… “Are there shops in there?” he asked, knowing the answer but curious as to what she’d tell him.

She seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, long enough to make him tear his eyes from the alley to look up at her. Then she nodded. “Yes, though I’d prefer if there weren’t. They aren’t nearly as respectful as those on Diagon Alley, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the majority of what they sold was illegal.”

“Ohh,” Harry said. That gave a whole slew of new implications as to why the Host had taken them in there. Had they been looking for something illegal? Or perhaps they just wanted to get hold of something that was _technically_ legal but unusual, and didn’t want questions to be asked? “Okay,” he went on with a shrug, pretending to drop his interest. The last thing he wanted was for someone to start to wonder _why_ he was interested in Knockturn Alley. “What’s next?” he asked instead, turning his mind to the novelty of shopping for himself.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

After getting his ingredients, Harry was starting to wonder if it was perhaps worth it to get a trunk with more than two compartments, but he wasn’t about to raise the issue with McGonagall, not after she’d been more kind than she really had to and got him his trunk as a gift. Maybe he’d look into it at some point to add an additional one to it, because he wasn’t too keen on keeping those smelly ingredients together with his clothes. For now, he simply put them all in his new cauldron and hoped that would contain them at least a bit. He’d been more careful with the telescope, even rolled it up inside of the winter cloak from Madam Malkin’s. He’d been given assurances that it wouldn’t break from being transported, but Harry wasn’t about to be as careless with his few belongings as Dudley was with his.

“Two more stops,” McGonagall informed him after they left the apothecary, and Harry looked up at her. “A wand and a pet.” A pet? Oh, right, the letter had mentioned it. A cat, toad or owl, wasn’t it? Well, he wasn’t about to get a toad. It was a shame he couldn’t get a snake; he’d at least be able to talk to those. “I suggest an owl; while I myself am partial to cats, and you’ll be able to use the Hogwarts owls should you want to send letters or packages, an owl will be more useful to you in the long run.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, but decided to see what caught his eye. Once they stepped inside Eyelops Owl Emporium, however, there was only once choice. The owl was massive, almost entirely white, and she—as he was informed by the small tag fastened to her leg, together with information on her breed and age—hooted softly at him and all but rubbed her head against his hand as soon as it was within reach.

“I’ll find you a good name,” he promised her, barely wincing at the claws in his shoulder as she settled down, and proudly pressed his key to the receipt before signing. The proprietor didn’t appear to even look at it before rolling it up, tying it off and making it vanish, so Harry fortunately didn’t have to say anything this time. The owl flew willingly into the cage that had been included in the purchase, and settled down on the perch inside.

“I can carry her, if you want,” McGonagall offered, and after only a few metres Harry had to concede defeat and hand the cage over. It wasn’t that she was too heavy, but rather that the cage was too cumbersome to carry, and in order to keep from jostling her at every step he was forced to carry it out from his body, which… definitely didn’t make the cage any lighter. So he let McGonagall carry his owl and simply followed them to and into the shop he’d noticed on his first, incorporeal visit to the street. Ollivanders.

He could hear a bell ringing softly somewhere in the back of the shop as they stepped inside. McGonagall took the only seat available, a spindly chair that looked like it’d break if you looked harshly at it, so Harry cautiously approached the empty counter, looking at the thousands of slender boxes stacked on the other side.

Something inside the tiny shop made him feel as there was something in there, just _waiting_. Like the pause between drawn-in breath and speech, only it went on and on and there were goose bumps down Harry’s arms and the hair in the back of his neck was standing on end.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice, and with all the tension in the air Harry couldn’t help himself. He jumped, and turned his attention to the man he hadn’t even noticed approaching. He was old, though not even close to the barman at the Leaky Cauldron, and his eyes were large and pale and seemed to almost glow.

“Hello,” Harry ventured. A small voice in the back of his head asked if eyes that glowed in the dark were uncommon or useful or painful, but he bit his tongue on those questions.

“Ah, yes. I thought I’d see you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. Nor was there any particular reaction to his name or presence. While the man was slightly creepy, Harry found himself liking him, if only for that lack of gasping or attempting to touch his scar. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

Harry blinked. That was unexpected. Even more so as the man went on to list the wands his parents had used, and with each sentence he seemed to come closer and closer, somehow managing to do that without obvious movement.

“It’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course,” the man finished, so close to Harry that their noses were almost touching. Harry found himself unable to blink as those eyes stared into his. No, stared beyond his eyes, into something he wasn’t… quite sure what it was. And then they weren’t staring into him but rather at his forehead. “And that’s where…” He backed off an inch or two just as a long, bony finger came up to lightly brush at Harry’s forehead. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he continued quietly, and once more rattled off the specifics. Did he remember every wand he ever sold? “Had I known then what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

The man shook his head, blinked, and then almost abruptly turned his attention away from Harry. He had to confess he was a bit relieved at that.

“Minerva! Minerva McGonagall. How nice to see you again,” he said, as though she’d been by only last week. “Fir, nine and a half inches, stiff, wasn’t it? Quite suited to transfiguration.”

“Quite,” McGonagall agreed. “It’s served me well over the years.”

“Yes, yes,” the man mused, then turned back to Harry. “Well, now. Mr Potter. Let me see…” He pulled a tape measure, marked with silver, out of his pocket and held it at the ready. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Err… I’m right-handed,” Harry said, not entirely sure that was the same thing. But he held out his right arm on request, and it seemed it worked just fine. And then the man started measuring him. Some measurements, like shoulder to finger, or wrist to elbow, made sense, but others…? Why on earth would he need to measure around Harry’s head, or from his knee to elbow? It just didn’t make any sense, but on the other hand magic made very little sense in general, if you looked at it scientifically.

As he measured, he told Harry about wands in general, informing him that no two wand cores were the same, even when they came from the same type of creature, and that likewise no two wands were identical, even though they might on paper be the same. Leaving the tape measure to continue on its own, just like the one at Madam Malkin’s, he flitted between the shelves, picking down a few boxes here and there.

“That will do,” he said as he came back, and the tape measure obligingly crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr Potter, try this one.” He opened a box and held it out to Harry. “Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches, nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry looked at the wand in the box for a few moments. Then, feeling somewhat foolish, he did as he was asked, but before he had time to complete the movement, the wand was snatched away from him.

“No, not that one. Here. Maple and phoenix feather, seven inches. Quite whippy. Go on.” Again, Harry reached out, but this time he’d barely lifted the wand before it was taken. “No, no.”

Another wand was handed to him, and another. And another. The pile of tried and rejected wands grew, and Harry still had no idea what they were looking or waiting for.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match somewhere. Hmm, I wonder now… Yes, why not? Unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and supple.”

Harry picked up the wand, expecting it to be taken from him right away. But instead he felt a rush of warmth and power run through him, making his fingers tingle and his breath shorten. For a heartbeat, he felt as though he could do anything, that nothing was impossible. Like he’d done with the others, he waved it around a little, and this time a stream of red and gold sparkles shot through the dusty air, throwing dancing spots on the walls and boxes.

“Nicely done, Harry,” he heard McGonagall comment from behind.

“Oh, bravo,” the shopkeeper seemed to agree. “Yes, indeed. Oh, very good. But… curious. So very curious.”

He packed the wand back into its box and wrapped it up in brown paper, still muttering under his breath about how curious it was. Finally, Harry couldn’t take it anymore.

“Excuse me, but what’s curious?”

The man looked up at him—and wasn’t that a strange feeling, with how short he was—and his eyes seemed to glow even brighter. “I remember every single wand I’ve ever sold, Mr Potter, and it just so happens that the phoenix who gave its tail feather to this one gave one other, just a single one. It is very curious that this wand should be destined for your hand, when its brother… Why, its brother gave you that scar.”

For a moment, it felt as though Harry’s heart stopped beating as he considered those words. The man was talking about Voldemort. He swallowed.

“Yes. Thirteen and a half inches, yew. So very curious. The wand chooses its wizard, remember. I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter. After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great things all the same.”

Harry shivered, suddenly no longer sure he liked the strange man. He dug out his money bag rather than his key and counted out the seven Galleons requested. It felt safer than giving this man his key impression and signature; he knew far too much about Harry as it was.

“Best put it away in your trunk, Harry,” McGonagall said softly, and Harry tugged out his miniature trunk and allowed her to enlarge it for him again. Technically he could do it himself now, but that would mean opening the package and… Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to feel it in his hand again. Instead he carefully placed it into his trunk, on the top of the side drawers. “And I suggest,” McGonagall went on as he closed the trunk, “that you let it remain there until school starts. There are laws and regulations when it comes to underage magic, and you won’t be permitted to use magic more freely until you’ve graduated from Hogwarts.”

Oh. He nodded to show he’d understood, and picked up the once more tiny chest from the floor and slid it back into his pocket. He could feel the man’s silver eyes in his back as he followed McGonagall out of the shop, and when the door closed behind him he felt a tension drain from him that he hadn’t been aware of.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“Now we head back to the Leaky Cauldron. I think it’s time to introduce you to the floo system.”

Harry blinked. The what-now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I absolutely refuse to type out Hagrid’s accent ^^; You’ll just have to imagine it.
> 
> And again, if you spot any mistakes, or something you think is a mistake, do tell me =) Can’t fix or explain it if I don’t know about it, after all!


	6. Tough Conversations

_…in which Minerva has a few choice words for her boss, and attempts to settle past grudges._

 

Harry was not a natural floo traveller, that much was clear. Minerva had stepped out of the fireplace in her office to find him still on the floor. Casting a discreet charm to clean him up, she then locked her floo down again and waited for him to climb to his feet before leading him through the back door of her office into the short hallway that led to, among other things, her personal quarters. She opened the door to the room Harry would stay in until September and waved him inside.

“Go on in, Harry,” she told him with a smile, but her smile became slightly forced when she noticed the look on his face. His eyes went wide, and he shot her a glance, lips parting just slightly, before looking back into the room and hesitantly taking a few steps inside. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to, either. His expression had said it all. Closing her eyes briefly, she recalled the room she’d found the boy in. Truth be told, she hadn’t really seen much of it as her focus had been on the broken body sprawled just inside the door, but she still remembered the narrow bed in a corner with its thin, lumpy mattress—if only because she’d had to dig into it to find the boy’s letters—the many boxes and strange Muggle objects stacked up against a wall, some of the boxes open and showing a further jumble of Muggle items, and the old, rickety wardrobe that looked like it’d fall apart if you looked at it too harshly.

Opening her eyes again, she tried to view this room the way Harry had to be doing. More than twice the size of the one she’d found him in, with the usual Gryffindor four-poster bed standing against the middle of one of the walls. A sturdy desk to study at and a small bookshelf. Thick rugs on the floor. A wardrobe large enough to play hide-and-seek in. An owl stand in a corner, near the window. It wasn’t a special room by any means, but when she compared it to what he’d had… it really was no wonder he seemed convinced he’d wake up at any moment.

She enlarged the trunk she’d carried through the floo—just to be on the safe side, of course—and floated it to the foot of the bed before setting the cage with Harry’s owl on the floor inside the door. “Feel free to settle in, Harry,” she told him. “Supper will be served at five.” She hesitated then, feeling like she ought to say _something_ more. “If you want to explore the school, you’re welcome to do so. Just be careful with the staircases as they can be a bit… unpredictable. If you get lost, call for Mipsy and she’ll help you out. If not, I’ll send her to you in time for supper.”

Harry didn’t respond, only nodded. His eyes were still darting around the room.

“Will you be fine on your own now?”

Another nod. Then he slowly turned his head and looked up at her. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” A moment’s pause. “For everything.”

She had to press her lips firmly together to keep them from trembling as she smiled at him and nodded. “You’re quite welcome. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Giving him another second to see if he would say anything, she then turned and left, closing the door behind her. She took a few steps down the hall leading to her office, but had to pause and support herself against the wall. Sweet Merlin, how could things have gone so wrong? How could Albus have let him stay there? Hadn’t he ever _checked_ on the boy?

Inviting the boy in had been a spur of the moment thing, really. But what else could she have done? She certainly wasn’t about to let him go home to those Muggles, not after what they’d done to him—and threatening to do worse—and she’d simply grasped at the first thing that came to mind.

She needed to do some paperwork that she would have done earlier today, had things today not taken as long as they had. There were also two Muggleborn students she needed to visit tomorrow to make sure they made it to Diagon Alley with their parents. She hadn’t thought much of it, to be honest, but after today she needed to re-evaluate everything about how she dealt with those visits. While she hoped she’d never encounter a situation like Harry’s, she also needed to be certain she didn’t miss any lesser signs of not-so-ideal home lives. Merlin knew she’d be a lot more alert for things that seemed amiss in the future.

She should head to her office and deal with that right away, but how could she? She was capable of that just as little as she was capable of sending the Potter lad back to abuse. No, the first thing she needed to do was to have a long-overdue discussion with Albus. And inform the house-elves that there’d be one extra person at supper. They probably knew already, of course; nothing happened in the castle that they didn’t seem to know about. But it was the polite thing to do.

“Mipsy?” she therefore said, knowing the house-elf assigned to her would hear her without her needing to raise her voice.

“Professor McGonygall called?” Mipsy asked, appearing in front of Minerva with a faint pop.

“Yes. I wanted to inform you that I will have a guest staying here until school start.” She gestured to the door to Harry’s room. “Harry Potter will be using that room, and I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him and make sure he has what he needs.”

“Mipsy will be happy to be doing so!” the house-elf assured her, without any reaction to Harry’s name. A sure sign, if any, that she’d already known he was there.

“Also please find him and get him to the Great Hall in time for supper.” Oh, Merlin… Severus! She’d need to warn him; he was antisocial at best, and she hadn’t seen any signs of him getting over the rivalry he’d had with Harry’s father.

“Yes, Professor McGonygall.”

Minerva was just about to dismiss the house-elf when she came to think of one other thing. “Oh, and… he’s grown up with Muggles, so do be careful about startling him. I don’t think he’s ever seen a house-elf before.”

That got a reaction. Mipsy’s eyes widened with surprise and, most likely, disbelief, but all she said was, “Yes, Professor McGonygall. Mipsy will be careful.”

“Thank you, Mipsy. That’s all for now.”

Mipsy nodded, clicked her fingers and was gone. Minerva sighed before straightening her back. Albus first. And she wasn’t going to _ask_ if Harry could stay here till September. She was going to _tell_ him.

Directing her firm steps down the hallways she stopped before the gargoyle guarding Albus’ office. “Jelly beans,” she said, giving it Albus’ password for the summer. The gargoyle obediently moved aside and revealed the staircase. Minerva headed upstairs without waiting for the steps to carry her there, and only knocked once on his door before opening it and striding inside.

“Why, welcome back, Minerva,” Albus told her with a wide smile, his eyes twinkling happily. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I do hope your errand went well.”

“We need to talk,” she responded, not willing to budge.

Albus’ smile dimmed just slightly. “Is something the matter?” he asked, and Minerva wanted to gnash her teeth.

“Yes,” she snapped in a tone that could have equalled Severus’ for sharpness and acidity. “Something is definitely the matter. Two words, Albus. Harry. Potter.”

“Oh dear,” Albus said, suddenly looking at least ten years older. He gestured to the chair on Minerva’s side of his desk. “Please, sit down. Talk to me.”

Part of her wanted to refuse, wanted to remain standing, if only to be able to loom over Albus and _make_ him see the light. Nevertheless she obliged him, sitting down almost gingerly to perch on the edge of the seat. She did, however, completely ignore the bowl of lemon drops he held out to her.

“As you’re probably aware of, I received a letter last night from Mr Potter, telling me he’d like to come to Hogwarts but that he needed some… assistance with the practical details.” Albus nodded, some of his smile returning. “Well, it appears his situation was a lot worse than his letter suggested. He did mention that his relatives ‘were proud to be normal’ and didn’t like hearing about magic, but…” Words failed her and she had to look away for a few seconds to collect her wits. “Maybe I’d best start with the situation I walked into.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s best,” Albus agreed readily. Almost too readily. Maybe he really didn’t know? On the one hand, that _would_ be a relief, but on the other it would mean he hadn’t done his duty as Harry’s magical guardian either.

“His aunt answered the door and tried to claim there was no Harry Potter living there. When I insisted that I already knew he lived there, she said he was ‘out playing with his friends’. As I had warned him I’d be there at noon, I doubted it and was about to press her for the truth when someone called out for help. I followed the voice upstairs and found Mr Potter on the floor in the shabbiest bedroom I’ve seen in a long while. He was quite obviously injured, but had still managed to enhance his voice, wish magic providing an effect akin to the Sonorous spell. He told me…” Again, she had to take a moment. “Albus, his own uncle did it to him. Dislocated his shoulder, broke his wrist. For _spilling juice_. Even threatened him with worse in case it made him late for work.”

“Well, tempers run high at the best of–”

“No, Albus!” Minerva interrupted. Did he really not understand? This wasn’t a simple matter of ‘tempers running high’. “I took him to St. Mungo’s. Discreetly, yes. They… Albus, the diagnostic charm… it ran for _ages_. The length is something I would expect from an auror with fifteen years’ active experience, not from an eleven-year-old child!” For once, Albus said nothing and his smile was finally gone. “From the moment he got there, they’ve been neglecting and abusing him. He weighs less than an eight-year-old, he flinches away from touches, probably expecting to be hit, and he was wearing clothes at least five sizes too large; his cousin’s cast-offs, apparently. They’d told him his parents were alcoholics who died in a car accident and _unfortunately_ didn’t manage to kill him in the process. James and Lily, Albus!”

She ran out of words then, rage and grief and frustration tightening her throat to the point she couldn’t go on. _I told you_ , she thought. _I told you we shouldn’t have left him there like that._ If only Sirius hadn’t turned out to be a Death Eater. If only Peter hadn’t died.

“That _is_ unfortunate,” Albus finally said, setting his elbows on his desk and steepling his hands in front of him, peering at her over the tips of his fingers.

Minerva spluttered. “Unfortunate?” she shouted, finding her voice again. “Try _criminal_.”

“I know, Minerva, and I wish there was any other choice. But you know what happened that night. Lily’s sacrifice saved him, and because of that, he needs to stay with her blood for the wards to work.”

“Wards.” Minerva felt slightly ill. How could he sit there and defend the situation? “Albus, what good do those wards do to protect him _from his own guardians_? What good to protect him against You-Know-Who’s followers if his so-called guardians beat him to death instead? He could stay with someone who _wants_ to take him in, somewhere he’d _want_ to be. Yes, the Fidelius is only as strong as its Secret Keeper, as we’ve noticed in the past, but there are trustworthy people. We could set me as Secret Keeper, or you yourself! Albus, there are. Other. Ways. Ways that will keep the boy safe! Most of all, ways that will keep him alive!”

Albus looked at her for a long while. “Were charges laid against the Dursleys?”

Minerva shook her head. “He didn’t want to; all he wanted was to not have to go back there.” Had it been up to her, the Dursleys would already be in custody.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, then sighed. “I understand, Minerva, and I promise I will think about it and talk to him when he arrives in September.”

Again, she shook her head. Hadn’t he been listening? “He’s here now. I set him up in my guest quarters. He may not be a Gryffindor, not yet…” Because how could he be Sorted into any other House? He obviously had courage to spare, sitting there with those injuries and yet managing to calmly and politely point out that he was in pain. “…but I was his parents’ Head of House; I have the right to invite him as my guest. I wasn’t… Albus, did you actually think I’d let him go back to that house after his uncle threatened him with a beating worse than dislocated joints and broken bones?”

Albus sighed again. “No, Minerva. I suppose I didn’t. I simply meant that I’d leave him alone these four weeks to let him enjoy the holidays.”

Minerva rather doubted that, but she let it go. “Alright,” she grudgingly allowed. “Well, we’ll see you at supper, I hope.”

“Of course you will,” Albus smiled, though his eyes weren’t quite back to their usual twinkling selves. “Oh, and did you bring back Mr Potter’s vault key?”

Minerva, on the verge of standing up, sighed and relaxed back into her seat. “No.” Albus frowned, and she didn’t hesitate to explain. “Mr Potter requested to hold onto it himself, and as that is his right—which, I might add, Gringotts informed him of—I let him have it. He was most upset at the thought of having to ask for an allowance, and even went so far as to compare it to the treatment he’d received at his relatives. It really didn’t take too much imagination to see how he might view it that way, not when he explained how simple things like food or bathroom breaks have been privileges that haven’t always been granted him.”

It felt absurd just to say it out loud, and it was somewhat of a relief that it seemed to take Albus about as many seconds to process it all as it had her before he shook his head sadly. “That would never have been the case, Minerva. I never wanted to keep the money from him, I just wanted to make sure they were handled responsibly.”

Minerva nodded, again feeling slightly relieved despite everything she’d found out that day. “I know, Albus, and I told him as much. He did promise to discuss larger purchases with either you or his Head of House once he’s Sorted, so I don’t think he’ll be very irresponsible.”

“That’s good to know, Minerva,” Albus said. “And thank you for telling me all this.”

There were so many things she still wanted to tell him, so many things that were threatening to leap off her tongue. She wanted to rant about Harry’s childhood or lack thereof, she wanted to rage at the injustice of it all, she wanted to scream her frustration over having failed him all these years, she wanted to roar her fury to the high heavens. Instead she merely stood up, nodded, turned on her heel and left the Headmaster’s office.

It was fortunate it was still summer, or she’d have been spotted by at least a few students, standing there like an Inferius without orders for several minutes, long after the gargoyle had closed the passage behind her. Albus was, she told herself, at the heart of it a good man, and now that he knew what Harry had gone through he wouldn’t let the boy go back to those horrible Muggles. And if he against all probability tried—she certainly wouldn’t let it happen—well… then he wasn’t the Transfigurations Professor turned Headmaster she’d come to respect and love.

Part of her wanted to retreat to her own room and hide away for the rest of the day, forget what she’d found out and just sleep. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. Not only did she now have Harry to take care of—though the house-elves saw to most of that—but she also had her duties as a Professor and as the Deputy Headmistress. And, last but not least, as a colleague and friend. Fortunately, the visit to Severus was bound to be easier than the conversation she’d just left. At least she hoped so. Severus could be somewhat unreasonable when it came to anything and anyone related to James Potter. You’d think twelve years would be enough time to get over their rivalry, really.

“Mipsy?”

There was a small pop. “Yes? What can Mipsy be doing for Professor McGonygall?”

“Where do I find Severus right now?” She certainly wasn’t about to search the entire dungeons for the man.

“Professor Snapey be in his lab,” Mipsy informed her. Not exactly a surprise as such, but it was good to know.

“His personal one?” Mipsy nodded and squeaked out an affirmative. Minerva nodded her thanks and directed her steps toward the dungeons, hearing Mipsy pop away again behind her. Less than ten minutes later, she stopped in front of the door leading directly to Severus’ quarters. She’d just steeled herself enough to lift her hand to knock when the door clicked and swung open.

“You might as well come in, Minerva,” came Severus’ drawl from deeper within, his tone giving her little clue as to whether he was annoyed or resigned or even amused. She doubted the last, however. Severus was very rarely amused at having his brewing interrupted.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Taking lessons from Albus in how to impress visitors?” she asked idly as she crossed the sitting room and headed into the small lab attached to it. Albus was infamous, after all, for knowing just who was on the other side of his door. He cheated, naturally, but before you knew how he did it it was impressive all the same.

“Hardly,” scoffed Severus, not even turning away from his cauldron. “I merely employ sufficient wards and deduction. I can count the number of people visiting me on one hand, and while Albus has a tendency to traipse by on a whim, he also doesn’t hesitate before knocking. You do, especially when you’re here on more sensitive business. Ergo, you have something to talk about that you felt couldn’t wait until supper. Whether it’s important or not is a matter of perspective.”

Minerva’s lips twitched, but she held back her laughter. This wasn’t a joking matter, after all. And as she recalled why she was there, any inclination to smile or laugh was gone.

“I do. It can, however, wait until you’re not at a critical stage and can safely leave for a while.”

Severus gave a non-committal grunt in response, reaching for another ingredient—just what the powder in question was, Minerva had little clue. A few seconds later, still without turning his head, he said, “You may go sit down if you like. I shall be out in a minute.”

Dismissed. Well, it wasn’t as though she was doing much of anything in here apart from potentially distracting him, so they were probably both best off if she followed his suggestion. She said nothing, only turned around and headed for the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. She’d been here a few times before, usually on the pretext of winning or losing a bet or other since Severus wasn’t one to socialise unnecessarily, and knew which of them he reserved for his own use. Sitting down in the other, she studied the flames as she waited for him to finish up.

True to his word, it didn’t take long before she felt Severus move into the room, his steps near-silent as he sat down adjacent to her. She glanced at him, but now that she was here she wasn’t sure just how to start.

“Well?” he prompted sharply.

“I wanted to let you know in private, rather than publicly at supper,” she hedged, then took a deep breath. “I brought a first-year with me today, who’ll be staying at Hogwarts until school start.” Severus frowned at her, as if working hard to figure out just why she was telling him this, why it had anything at all to do with him. “It’s Harry Potter.”

And just like that, his lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. “Of course,” he spat. “Why am I not surprised the rules are bent for the likes of him? Let me guess, Albus had some harebrained idea that letting the ‘Boy Who Lived’ take the Hogwarts Express would cause too much disruption?”

Minerva stared at him. She _had_ expected some acidity, but… “Not at all. It was my decision, based on his home situation. He–”

“–Didn’t care to ride with the peasant rabble?” There was a definite sneer on his lips. “Well, rules are rules. Everyone rides the train, no matter what. I’m sure he can get himself a nice cushion to sit on, in case the seats are too hard for his royal buttocks.”

“No!” she finally managed. Was that really what he thought? Admittedly she’d been under the impression that he’d had a pleasant childhood, but dear Merlin! “That’s… Severus, you’re _wrong_.”

The sneer didn’t decrease. “Objectively or subjectively?”

What kind of question was that? “Both,” she snapped, starting to lose her temper. “I went to explain the details about Hogwarts to his relatives, and help him to Diagon Alley and back, but… _No_ , Severus, don’t interrupt.” She held up a finger, and for once he stayed his sharp tongue. “That’s what I expected from today. I did _not_ expect to have to start with taking him to St. Mungo’s to have his injuries treated.” She levelled a stare at him. “Injuries, I might add, that his uncle had inflicted on him.”

That wiped the last traces of scorn off of Severus’ face, but while that was satisfying in itself, Minerva felt no urge to smirk or even smile. She waited for a few seconds to see if he’d say something, but he was quiet, his face a blank mask.

“They did a diagnostic at St. Mungo’s, and… it’s been going on for years. The results… I’d have expected them of an Auror or Hit Wizard who’d been on active duty for the past decade, not from an eleven-year-old. And that’s only the treatment that leaves physical evidence.” She didn’t want to imagine how much there was that couldn’t be detected through a diagnostic charm. The things he’d said… hinted at, really. What more was there that they didn’t know?

Severus turned away from her to stare into the fire. He still said nothing for a long while. When he did, his voice was a mere whisper. “And no one knew?”

“No. Not the extent of it, or he’d have been taken from there, wards or not. What good are wards to keep hostile people out if the hostile people are already inside of them?” While Albus had failed Harry by not checking up on him as he should have, it was better than having willingly allowed him to stay there with what had been going on.

Again, Severus was quiet for a long time. Minerva didn’t stress him. While she didn’t understand his animosity towards a boy he’d never even met, she imagined it was quite an effort to adjust his mindset. “I see,” he said then. Minerva blinked as he stood up. “Well, thank you for letting me know. I have things to do. I’m sure I’ll see you at supper, together with the boy.” There was still a slight sneer in his voice at the last word, but not nearly as much as there had been.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m sure,” Minerva managed, taken aback by the sudden dismissal. Then again, Severus was a very private man, and probably needed more time to process everything. “If you need anything, you know where to find me,” she said instead of insisting on staying, and stood as well.

“I doubt I’ll manage to forget it anytime soon,” Severus agreed with his usual sarcastic touch.

Leaving his quarters, Minerva returned to her own and sat down at her desk. There was a lot to do, and procedures to re-examine. She would _not_ let something like this happen again. Not if there was anything, anything at all, she could do to prevent it. She also needed to write a letter to the Dursleys, explaining that Harry wasn’t going to be back at least until the next summer. She wasn’t looking forward to that part at all. She’d like it much better if she could say straight off that he’d never be back at all, but… she didn’t have the right to. Not yet.


	7. Word of Warning

_…in which Harry acquaints himself with his new room, threatens a house-elf, and finds out a little more about his parents._

 

The door closed, and Harry was left alone in the quite frankly huge room. Was this really where he’d be staying? Taking a few steps further in, he trailed his fingers along the surface of the desk. Gripped the edge and lifted. Or, rather, _tried_ to lift, as it turned out to be far too heavy for him to make it budge more than a hairsbreadth off the floor. Real, solid wood, that was, not the old, falling-to-pieces laminate thing that sat in Dudley’s second bedroom back at Privet Drive, half buried behind boxes that Harry hadn’t dared to move in the week or so he’d slept there.

Taking another three steps, he stopped in front of the window. He hadn’t yet had time to see anything of where he was other than McGonagall’s office and the short hallway that led to this room and one other. Her room, he supposed. Hopefully there was also a bathroom somewhere, or things would get awkward and complicated very soon. The similarities between her office and the one he’d seen through the Host’s eyes that one time were obvious, but he already knew that the Host was a teacher here so it wasn’t really that strange.

His heart wrenched with the pain of not being able to go to the Host and talk to the Being. It just wasn’t _fair_ , Quirrell getting to spend all his time with the Being, while Harry was limited to dream time. But Harry couldn’t just jump in out of nowhere and suddenly spend time with a Professor he’d only met the one time. No, he’d have to gradually increase the time he spent with Quirrell, to keep anyone from becoming suspicious. He’d have to make up some excuse. Though, to be fair, Quirrell’s fake speech impediment—it hadn’t been there when they first met him, so it had to be pretence—made for a handy one. It made Quirrell stand out, just as Harry had stood out practically all his life. Smiling to himself, he turned his attention to the view on the other side of the thick glass that might just as well have belonged in a church window, apart from the lack of fancy colours.

The window provided him with an absolutely stunning view, despite the slight distortion. On one end he could see water—a lake or a pond, at a guess—and in the other direction was a forest. More trees than he could remember seeing in his entire life. Between those two lay a lawn that seemed to stretch on forever. Swallowing, he lifted his hand and reached for the window, but stopped himself before he could touch the glass and leave fingerprints. Instead he put his palm against the stone windowsill, leaning forward as he tried to take in as many details as he possibly could.

Perhaps, he thought, his time at the Dursleys’ had damaged him more than expected, since his second reaction to the vast grounds around Hogwarts was to wonder how long it’d take to mow the lawn and tend the flowerbeds. Then his face cracked into a wide grin. Most likely, they did it through magic and not by using child labour.

Magic.

He glanced over his shoulder at the large trunk at the foot of the bed, where his wand—and everything else he owned—lay. He itched to take it out and feel that same rush of power he’d felt when he first held it, but he certainly wasn’t about to risk his pre-school stay here by disobeying McGonagall’s instructions.

Instead he went over to the door and opened the cage to let his owl out. He still didn’t know what to call her. It was a shame Minerva was already taken, really, but maybe he could get some nice ideas in one of his new books? The owl hopped out, pushed off the floor and flew two laps around the room before settling down on the perch that sat in a corner.

After making sure she had water and food available, Harry admired and petted her for a little while before going to his trunk, after all. Not to take his wand out, no. He’d promised he wouldn’t. But not only did he want to grab one of his new books to read, he also desperately wanted to get out of Dudley’s cast-offs and wear something that actually fit him for once. Digging around, he grabbed the green shirt—all three of them were button-up shirts rather than the t-shirts he’d been expecting—and one of the two pairs of black trousers, as well as underwear and socks. He grabbed hold of the hem of Dudley’s old t-shirt, but then he hesitated. New clothes was all good, but… he really wanted to take a shower before putting on something clean and fresh.

What had McGonagall said, again? Sure, it had been in case he got lost, but…

“Err… Mipsy?” he asked, feeling somewhat ridiculous at speaking to an empty room. Then he almost fell over as, with a slight pop, a completely hairless creature that looked like a caricature of a goblin—a misshapen cousin race, maybe?—appeared, dressed in what appeared to be a pillowcase. On its chest, neatly embroidered, was the same emblem that had been on his Hogwarts letter.

“Mister Harry Potter called for Mipsy?” the creature squeaked. Then its large eyes widened even further and it reached up to tug hard at its floppy ears. “Oh, Professor McGonygall _said_ to be careful. Mipsy forgot. Mipsy is so sorry!” It yanked even harder at its ears. It looked painful enough that Harry winced.

“It’s alright, Mipsy. I just wasn’t expecting… I mean, I didn’t think it’d work to just say your name like that.” It was the creature’s name, wasn’t it?

“Oh, Mipsy always be listening,” it assured him, not tugging quite as hard at its ears. “What can Mipsy be doing for Mister Harry Potter?”

“Just call me Harry, please.”

Its eyes widened again. “Oh, Mipsy can’t be doing that!” it claimed. “That is not being proper!”

“Please?” Harry asked. Then he grinned. “Or I’ll start calling you ‘Miss Mipsy’.” At least he assumed, from the voice and all, that it was female. He also had a vague memory of McGonagall using ‘her’ earlier.

It—she—spluttered, eyes bulging now. “Mipsy…” She hesitated. “Mipsy can be saying… saying ‘Harry’ when no one else can be hearing?”

Harry smiled. “Thank you, Mipsy.”

“But please… please not to be calling Mipsy ‘miss’.” She peered up at him, looking at the same time both fearful and hopeful.

“I take it that wouldn’t be proper,” Harry hazarded, and Mipsy nodded eagerly. “Then I won’t do that. Unless it’s just the two of us and you forget to call me Harry, of course.”

Mipsy wobbled a little where she stood. “Mipsy won’t be forgetting, not ever.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Harry said soothingly, choosing not to remind her that she’d apparently forgotten instructions to ‘be careful’, whatever that meant. “Now, I… Well, I’d like to take a shower, but I don’t know where to go.

She lit up. “Oh! Mipsy can be showing…” Her mouth worked for a second. “Harry where to take his showers,” she finished, in a not quite as enthusiastic tone. “Please be coming with Mipsy now.” She scurried out the door, and Harry followed her, carrying his new clothes.

It really wasn’t far to go. Harry must simply have missed seeing the door in the hallway outside. The bathroom itself was remarkably spacious, far more so than even the family bathroom at Privet Drive. It contained not only a shower but also a bath tub that was the size of a small pool. It would have been able to accommodate all three of the Dursleys without any problem.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Harry said over his shoulder.

“Mipsy is happy to help.” Then she blinked. “Mipsy has to be going now.” And before Harry had time to respond, she vanished without a trace.

Smiling and shaking his head, Harry locked the door and proceeded to take his sorely needed shower. His old clothes he threw in the bin under the sink, and the towel he’d used he put in the hamper. His hair was still slightly wet as he headed back to his room—he still couldn’t quite believe he could stay in it—but he was clean and in clothes that fit him for the first time in his life. Well, the first time he could remember, at least.

Switching the active compartment of his trunk, he pulled out _Hogwarts: A History_ from the bookshelf, threw himself onto the bed to read it—and was momentarily stunned over how soft and bouncy the bed was. It was like resting on a fluffy cloud, and he was tempted to take a nap just to see how well he could sleep.

He resisted the temptation, if only because he didn’t want to risk ending up with the Host and the Being before he’d figured out how to deal with that situation, and instead opened up the book to the first page.

Several chapters later—though to be fair he hadn’t read even half of it, skimming past most of the text unless something caught his eye—a quiet but squeaky clearing of a throat drew his attention. Looking up, he found a creature similar to Mipsy standing there, twisting a corner of its pillowcase with its long and knobbly fingers. “Yes?” he asked.

“Oh, Nonny is terribly sorry to disturb Mister Harry Potter,” it said, and Harry could honestly not tell if it was male or female. “But Professor Snapey has asked Nonny to please be escorting Harry Potter to be seeing him.”

Apparently, Mipsy wasn’t alone in having that weird speech pattern. “Alright,” he said. Used to being discreet, he yanked out a hair and put it in the book before carefully closing it and setting it aside on the bedside cabinet. The Dursleys never noticed a stray hair in their books, the few times they actually opened them up to read, so it was a safe way to keep track of where he was, since he couldn’t really read all that often. “Lead the way,” he went on, standing up. Then he hesitated. “Err…” The creature turned back to look at him. “Will I be needing a cloak or anything?” Oh for… Be needing? Now _Harry_ was starting to pick up on their speech pattern, too.

The corner of the pillowcase was back in Nonny’s fingers. “Nonny does not know,” it said, almost whimpering.

Right. With how they were dressed, they probably didn’t feel cold the same way humans did. “Are we going outside?”

“Oh, no, not at all.” There was relief in its voice. “Nonny be taking Mister Harry Potter to the dungeons.”

Dungeons. Right, of course a castle-like structure has dungeons. He couldn’t help a shiver as his imagination ran off with him, and he hoped he wouldn’t be locked up somewhere. “That’s… fine,” he said then, realising the creature was still looking at him. “Let’s go. I’m sure the Professor wouldn’t like waiting.”

“Oh, no, Professor Snapey does not like waiting at all,” Nonny agreed, and scurried out, the door opening of its own. Blinking slightly, Harry hurried after, and the door closed itself as well. Did the creature do that, or was it the door that was magical? No, it had to be Nonny’s doing, or it would have happened before, too.

Setting the thought aside, he followed Nonny through a hole in the wall where a portrait had slid to the side, and then down hallway after hallway, with a detour into a huge stairwell where the staircases seemed to move on their own. Realising why McGonagall had warned him to be careful, Harry paid close attention to where he was stepping. Fortunately, or perhaps through some other magic of Nonny’s, they never seemed to be turned aside from where they were heading, and the creature never hesitated.

It took longer than he’d initially thought, but shorter than he’d started to expect after seeing how large Hogwarts actually was, to reach the basement—or the dungeons, as Nonny had called them. A couple of minutes more, and Nonny stopped in front of a non-descript door. It’s hand came up as far as it could reach, and rapped on the door with its bony knuckles.

“Enter,” said a male voice harshly from within. Nonny swung open the door and vanished, leaving Harry alone to face whoever was inside.

Swallowing, he took a step into the room, only to hesitate. For a dungeon, it was a remarkably comfortable room. There was a merrily crackling fire in a large fireplace, two comfy-looking armchairs in front of it, a very neat and orderly desk in a corner, and three sturdy bookcases. There were enough rugs on the floor to enable someone to avoid stepping on the flagstones completely while accessing every piece of furniture in the room and every door—there were three that Harry could see, other than the one he was at—leading away from it.

“Well?” barked the single occupant of the room, a dark-haired man in a black, floor-length robe. His face was pale, and his nose almost as prominent as Griphook’s.

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said, trying not to shrink back from the sour expression on the man’s face. “Nonny said you wanted to see me?”

The man snorted quietly, then looked him up and down. “Well, don’t just stand there like a simpleton,” he said then. “Come here, and close the door.”

To say that Harry was worried was an understatement, but he did as asked, closing the door gently and crossing the room to stand in front of the Professor. Part of him wanted to ask what he’d done wrong, but he held back the urge, knowing all too well that he didn’t really have to _do_ anything to have done something wrong. So instead he looked up at Professor Snapey and waited, hoping against hope that he wasn’t in any sort of trouble and that he’d be allowed to return to his room unharmed.

“Potter,” the man said with a sneer, the name filled with anger and scorn that Harry felt quite certain he hadn’t deserved. Professor Snapey—if that even was his name, considering Mipsy had mangled McGonagall’s name—spun around, his robes swirling around his feet, and took two steps toward one of the chairs. Another abrupt turn and he sat down before his robe had time to settle down. Harry wished he had a pillowcase to twist in his hands, but he resigned to just waiting. Sooner or later—preferably sooner—he’d be told why he was here. “Enjoying yourself?”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

“You’re staying at Hogwarts, aren’t you?” A dark eyebrow shot up. “Are. You. Enjoying. It?” he enunciated clearly, as though Harry was incapable of understanding.

“I haven’t done much, sir, but yes. So far it’s been very pleasant.” Apart from maybe this visit, but he sure wasn’t going to express any dislike of being here. It’d probably just backfire, and he seemed to be in trouble already for no apparent reason. “Probably _because_ I haven’t had much to do,” he added before he could think better of it.

The man sniffed. “And what is it you usually do in a day?”

Harry hesitated. Should he really tell the truth? Maybe he’d be better off if he lied and said he didn’t do much at all. No, the Being had said to be honest, and while it/he had also said to avoid people with twinkling blue eyes, the Professor’s eyes were far from either blue _or_ twinkling. Plus he’d already said he’d enjoyed himself because he didn’t have to do so much.

Apparently he’d hesitated too long, because the man’s dark eyes narrowed. “Today, Potter, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Harry swallowed and looked down at the floor. “Making breakfast for the Dursleys, serving breakfast, doing the dishes, cleaning, laundry, making lunch for Aunt Petunia and Dudley during summer, sometimes grocery shopping. In case of guests in the afternoon, either staying out back gardening or painting the shed or fence, if necessary, or hiding in my cupboard and pretending I don’t exist, cooking and serving supper, cleaning up,” He paused, trying to remember if he’d forgotten something. “I think that’s about it. If I’ve done well enough for the Dursleys, I’d then have something to eat before a last sweep of the kitchen and going to bed.”

The other man was silent for so long that Harry was starting to wonder if he’d done a mistake in telling the truth, after all. Again he found himself wishing he had a pillowcase to twist. Had he still been wearing Dudley’s old t-shirt, he might have fiddled with the hem of it, but he didn’t want to subject his new shirt to that. Especially since he’d never had button-up shirts before apart from school uniforms, and those had hardly fit him to the degree his new clothes did. He also had a niggling suspicion that Snapey wouldn’t approve of him tugging his shirt out from his trousers.

“Sir?” he finally asked, peering up at him. If he could have taken the word back, he would have. The man’s face looked like a thundercloud.

“When did you last eat?”

Harry blinked, taken aback by the question. “Err… yesterday at around seven in the evening, sir.” With what had happened this morning, even had he had time he wouldn’t have–

“And before that?”

Frowning, Harry tried to remember. Things had gone decidedly quickly lately. Yesterday was when he’d managed to send off the response to Professor McGonagall. The day before that, Vernon had still stayed home in case there would be some more letters coming… He’d managed to snap up those leftovers, but Dudley had been in a mood later that day, probably because Piers had been too busy to hang out with him, which meant Dudley had made up mistakes just to get Harry to miss out on supper. Fortunately, they’d seemed to realise the mistakes were mostly invented, because he hadn’t had anything worse than sending him to bed without eating. “I managed to snag a couple of bites while clearing up lunch the day before that.” He shrugged. He was used to it, and didn’t really get hungry anymore. If he got light-headed, he just drank some water until it went away. It was a good thing the Dursleys rarely restricted his access to water.

Again silence. “And Min– Professor McGonagall didn’t see fit to get you lunch today?”

Harry shrugged again. “I think we forgot, sir.” By the time they’d made it to Diagon Alley, he’d been more intent on all the new sights and sounds, and on keeping his identity secret. And while he’d been tempted by the ice cream shop, he hadn’t wanted to say anything. He was already taking up too much of her time, after all. She’d been so kind to him, and he didn’t want to do anything to change that, or take advantage of it.

“Would you care for something now?”

Now? But… “What time is it, sir?”

“Quarter to four. Why?”

“Then thank you, but no thank you. Supper will be served at five, Professor McGonagall said. I’ll be fine until then.” If he ate now, he probably wouldn’t be able to eat any supper, and then… Unless he was asking now because Harry wouldn’t be eating supper with the others. He hoped that wasn’t the case. “Err… assuming I’ll still be welcome to eat then, sir.” McGonagall had said things wouldn’t be the same here, but with how angry Snapey seemed to be with him, he wasn’t going to take anything for granted.

“Don’t be an imbecile, Potter,” the man snapped. “It’s a mistake to think we’re anything like those cretins.”

Trembling in his worn-out sneakers, Harry shot a quick look up at the man before looking down at the floor again. He gathered his courage. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t know what to expect. You seem to be upset with me, and I don’t know why, and I’d like to know what I’ve done wrong so I can avoid doing it again in the future.” This was the test then, wasn’t it? If he were anything like Harry’s relatives, a slap was sure to come now.

The seconds passed, and Harry was starting to teeter between hope and dread. Either nothing would happen, or something a lot worse than a slap was coming.

Professor Snapey sighed. A deep, weary sound. “It seems I owe you an apology… Mr Potter.” There was the briefest of pauses before his name was spoken, but unlike every time before there was no malice in the name. “I assure you that I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with those Muggles you’ve been left with. I’m angry with those who should have noticed years ago and taken you from there. I’m angry that you were taken there in the first place; your mother would _not_ have wanted you to grow up with her sister.”

“You knew my mum?” Harry blurted out, too shocked to hold his tongue. Had he also been a teacher when his parents had gone to… But no. He didn’t look nearly as old as McGonagall did.

“I did, yes. I also had the misfortune to meet your aunt a few times while growing up.”

There was an odd sensation in Harry’s chest. His heart felt too big and too small at the same time, and he had to hold his breath and clench his jaw to keep himself from asking all the questions that bubbled up in his mind. Considering Snapey’s mood, he probably wouldn’t appreciate a million and one questions about Harry’s mum.

“In any case,” the man went on, and Harry slowly let out his breath and relaxed, hoping that now that the moment had passed he’d be able to restrain himself, “I didn’t intend to make you think I was upset with you. I did, however, want confirmation that what I’d been told had any foundation in the truth, and to get that I… felt the need to withhold sympathy. I didn’t expect you to read more into my behaviour than that, though in retrospect I should have, and for that you have my apologies.”

Harry couldn’t keep his lips from twitching as he pictured the same speech delivered to Dudley. He could just _see_ Dudley’s blank stare of incomprehension before turning to his mother and demanding that she explain it to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said once he had his amusement under control again. He hesitated. “Did you know my dad as well?” he then ventured.

The man’s lips thinned, the corners of his mouth turning down in displeasure. “I wasn’t friends with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

That hadn’t been quite what Harry had asked, and he wondered if there was something more to it than it seemed at first glance. He did seem to have known Harry’s mother well enough to have met her sister. Which didn’t make sense if he’d only seen her at school, since Aunt Petunia was unlikely to ever have set foot at Hogwarts. “But you were friends with my mum?” he hazarded.

A few seconds passed, and he worried that he’d gone too far. Then, “I was.” Another few seconds. “We… had a falling-out that our friendship didn’t recover from, and I will always regret that.”

Oh. Harry wondered what had happened. Had there been a one-sided crush involved? He’d overheard conversations back in school between older pupils about how friendship and romance didn’t go together. And if his parents had been going out already at the time… Was that why he and Harry’s dad ‘weren’t friends’? It _would_ go a long way to explain the way Snapey said Harry’s last name, wouldn’t it? Even if it had been more than ten years ago. “I’m sorry.”

Professor Snapey snorted. “I assure you, you had no part in that.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I mean… for reminding you.”

Another sigh. “Yes, well, there’s not much to be done about that. You do have her eyes, at least.”

“I do?” Sure, Mr Ollivander had mentioned that, but hearing it from a second source confirmed it. Harry rather liked having something in common with his mum. God… Err, Merlin knew he didn’t look anything like Aunt Petunia. He hoped his mum hadn’t, either.

A scowl was directed at him. “What kind of question is that?”

Harry shrugged, but realised that wouldn’t be enough of an answer, not if he was to judge by the intensifying of the scowl. “If Aunt Petunia had any pictures of them, she certainly never showed me,” he explained. “I thought I might ask at some point if Professor McGonagall had any, since she was their Head of House.”

The glare didn’t let up, but what else could Harry say?

“She might,” came the terse response a few long moments later. “Now, regarding something else entirely.”

Harry blinked, but peered up attentively. He wanted to ask more about his parents—or about his mum, at least—like if _he_ had any pictures he could show Harry, but… He didn’t think those questions would be appreciated. If he did have any and wanted to share them, that would have been the perfect moment, wouldn’t it? Maybe he _didn’t_ have any? And wouldn’t that just be horrible? I mean, sure, Harry didn’t exactly have any pictures of his parents, but he’d never had them. He’d never really known his parents, either, so he didn’t know what he was missing.

The silence stretched on. Had he changed his mind? Or was he trying to figure out what to say or how to say it? Harry had no clue, and the man’s facial expression didn’t give away anything.

“I don’t know how much you know about the wizarding world,” the Professor said finally. “But there are some people who have… certain opinions about Muggles and Muggleborns.”

Harry nodded. That much he’d come to understand. His parents had died because of that, and the boy he’d met earlier that day seemed to share that opinion, though perhaps not to the same degree.

“Well, many of those who believe such things do so out of ambition, pride and a reluctance to share what they have with those they think of as ‘lesser beings’. As such, their sense of entitlement and ambition also is more likely to land them in Slytherin, the House I am the Head of.”

Oh, right. Hadn’t McGonagall said that many of them shared Voldemort’s views? Maybe it wasn’t so much a matter of their _views_ placing them there, but that those views came from the same traits that Slytherins were known for? He nodded, showing that he was following the Professor so far.

“And while House placements aren’t hereditary as such, the way people are raised often influences their viewpoints, to the point where some families are _expected_ to end up in a certain House.”

Again, Harry nodded. He didn’t quite understand why that was so, but… Well, actually, he could see it. Dudley was, so far, an immature carbon copy of his father, so why wouldn’t that be the case in other families as well, at least until they grew up? He waited, but again Snapey seemed to hesitate on what to say. Or maybe it was just a pause for effect, who knew?

“Several of those families who are expected to end up in Slytherin are old, powerful and rich,” he finally continued. “From that follows that I am under a certain pressure, and my public stance has to be to agree with that opinion. Were I to deviate from the expected behaviour too much, my… suitability to remain as the Head of Slytherin might come into question. While my current pupils cannot do much about it on their own, they can and most likely will pass word to their parents or other relatives, who most likely have the clout to do something about it.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to process all that. “Hold on a second, please,” he said. After thinking for a little while, he decided to reason it out verbally. “So, basically, no matter what you _do_ believe, others have to think you believe Muggles and Muggleborn… should what? Die? Stay out of Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

Oh. He’d expected some sort of clarification on which of those it was, not a simple ‘yes’. He swallowed, but went on, “And if they don’t, you’d end up in trouble?” He frowned. “What kind of trouble? You’d get fired?”

“If I’m fortunate, yes.”

It took Harry a few seconds to process that, but when he did he swallowed again, remembering McGonagall telling him how many Slytherins—and, presumably, former Slytherins—were ruthless and expected to cheat. In other words, they might not do something against the Professor openly. “Alright, I think I’ve got it now. Thank you.”

“Perhaps you’d be less likely to thank me if you knew where I was going with this.” Harry shrugged, but didn’t argue, since Snapey was right: Harry didn’t know where the man was headed. “The short story is that the wizard who… went after your family, he was in much a leader or role model for many of those who share his views. And since he was defeated that night you, being the reason for his downfall, are not much liked by that quarter. Which in turn means that in order to keep up appearances–”

“You have to pretend to hate me,” Harry broke in, his heart sinking as he came to that conclusion. So much for the chance of asking for pictures of his mum, then, let alone asking if there was a chance to hear something about who she’d been. Then he bit back a wince, realising he’d just interrupted someone. He peered up through his fringe, dreading the response.

However, Snapey didn’t appear upset about it. He paused for a second, looking steadily at Harry. Then he nodded. “Accurate, though I wouldn’t have expressed it quite the same way. I’m glad to see you’re not as ignorant as your father was, though you do appear to share the tendency to speak first and think later.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry mumbled.

“It is of no matter. The reason why I told you this, Mr Potter, was to apologise in advance for how I will have to treat you, not only once the semester starts up but also any time we meet in public before that. I am going to have to appear to be extra hard on you, which from September on more than likely is going to result in loss of points and detentions.”

Harry swallowed. “Oh,” he said, unable to find any words to fit the situation. What _did_ you say to someone who’d just apologised for having to bully Harry in the future?

“If I might give you some advice, however… Do read up in advance in your Potions book. It may prevent some of those point losses.”

Harry blinked up at him. “ _You’re_ the Potions Professor?”

“Very astute of you.” The tone was dry with a slight bite to it.

“No, I mean, that wasn’t… It’s just, I ran into someone today while getting my robes who said he was looking forward to Potions because… Well, because his father knew you, so he was sure you’d go easy on him.”

Snapey made a sound halfway between a snort and a scoff. “Is that so?”

“I… might have accidentally insulted him,” Harry admitted. “I mentioned looking forward to making people respect me for what I do, and not for who they think I am or what my parents did.”

The same noise again. Was that his version of laughing? “And what prompted you to make such a comment?” There was no obvious sign of humour or laughter in his voice.

“Considering I barely an hour and a half earlier had found out that my parents didn’t kill themselves in a car accident but were heroes and that I was as well for something I don’t even remember, and that I then, directly after finding that out, was subjected to about half an hour of strangers shaking my hand, some of them coming back repeatedly, can you blame me, sir?”

“Did you just say car accident?” There was a certain stillness to the man’s voice and body that didn’t quite seem natural. The question wasn’t loud, but at the same time it managed to cover Harry’s entire body in goose bumps.

He looked down. “It’s what I was told. I’m not entirely sure if it was out of malice or because it’s what _they_ were told. I’ve heard there are certain rules about what one can and cannot say to Muggles.” The bits about them being drunkards? That was definitely malice, but if that was Snapey’s reaction to the car accident, Harry didn’t really want to bring up the rest of it. “Anyway, I’m about as happy about people worshipping me for something that happened when I was barely a year old as I am about people hating me for it. I rather doubt it was anything deliberate on my part, and if anything it’s my mum they should be thanking. I hear the theory is that it was basically her doing anyway.” On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t have brought up his mum again. “I’d much prefer it if people judged me based on what I do _now_ rather than what I did then. Or what people _think_ I did then, since I’m the only one around who was present, and I don’t remember anything of it.”

“Well,” was all the man said. A few seconds later, he went on, “While it’s not quite the willingness to utilise every advantage available to you that some Slytherins exhibit, I’d say that’s quite an ambition in itself. Even more so considering how difficult I expect you’ll discover it to be. I must confess I hadn’t expected anything of the sort from you.”

Before Harry had time to consider how to respond to that—him, a Slytherin? How would _that_ work out with its Head of House needing to pretend to hate him?—Snapey stood up.

“And now I’ve kept you far too long. Any longer, and people are going to wonder where you’ve vanished to, I’m certain.” Without looking at Harry, he strode off across the room, leaving Harry once more to wonder at how he made his robe move that way. “Should you somehow be in need to contact me, you may call my assigned house-elf. He is… reasonably discreet.”

“You mean Nonny?”

“Precisely. Just make absolutely certain you are alone at such a time, to prevent word from spreading. There would hardly be any point to going to all this effort if I cannot expect the same kind of discretion from you.”

Harry swallowed, but nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ll be careful.” He followed the man to the door. “And sir? Thank you.”

“You will soon come to the realisation you have nothing to thank me for, Mr Potter.” He paused with his hand on the door handle, and for a moment Harry thought he’d say something else, but instead he only pulled the door open and gestured to the opening.

Well, if Harry insisted, or explained he wasn’t only thanking the man for _warning_ him he’d be a discriminating jerk but also for allowing him to slightly get to know one of his mother’s friends, former or not, he’d probably only get told off for ‘indiscretion’. So he just nodded at the Professor and left the room, turning down the corridor in the direction he’d come earlier with Nonny. He didn’t look back as he heard the door quietly close behind him.


	8. The First Supper

_…in which Harry learns that Hogwarts staff comes in all sizes, that dogs can be very enthusiastic in their greetings, and that some motorbikes really can fly._

 

In the end, Harry had to call Nonny to help him find the way up from the dungeons. After half an hour of trying to follow what he thought was the way he’d been led, he’d been forced to accept that he was completely and hopelessly lost. While he could have called for Mipsy, like McGonagall had told him to do, he’d chosen Nonny because he wasn’t sure if Professor Snapey would have appreciated other house-elves—it was good to finally have a name for what the creatures were—knowing he’d been in the dungeons. Nonny had happily assisted him back to the main floor and not quite as happily but without any protest left Harry alone there.

The stairs weren’t nearly as helpful this time, and Harry was even left stranded for a few minutes on one landing. When it didn’t look like the next staircase was likely to swing his way, he’d wandered off into the hallway, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere and all the doors were locked. He could hear something behind one of them, but it didn’t sound human. He didn’t even try that door, worried what might be behind it, and instead quickly hurried back to the landing. Shortly thereafter, it seemed to please a staircase to make connection with it, and he could continue on.

By the time he finally made it back to what he _thought_ was the right floor in the right direction, Mipsy popped into existence a little ways away. Or at least he assumed it was Mipsy. It looked like her, and while there might be other house-elves that looked similar, surely none of those would have a reason to… Unless some other Professor had sent their assigned house-elf to fetch him, of course. But how likely was that?

“Hello, Mipsy,” he said, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. By the way her eyes widened and her face seemed to light up, he didn’t think so.

“Mister Harry Potter be remembering Mipsy’s name!” she squeaked.

Harry winced inwardly but figured that a corridor, out in the open, probably counted as ‘in public’, so he didn’t correct her. Instead he smiled. “Of course I do.” It would be somewhat difficult, with how they seemed to talk about themselves in third person, to not learn a house elf’s name. “How many house-elves have I talked to in my life?” At her puzzled and worried expression, he realised she’d taken it as an actual question and hurriedly added, “That was a rhetorical question, Mipsy. You don’t have to answer it. What was it you wanted?”

“Oh, Mipsy came to be taking Harry Potter to the Great Hall for supper!” she chirped, obviously relieved she wasn’t required to find an answer she had no way of knowing. He was in turn relieved that she had at least dropped the ‘mister’ bit.

“It’s five already?” How long had he been wandering?

“Mipsy is being a little early,” she admitted. “Mipsy is not wanting Harry Potter to be late.”

And depending on where he’d been, going across the castle might have taken quite some time, he supposed. He nodded. “Thank you, Mipsy. Please lead the way.”

He followed her the way he’d earlier followed Nonny, and to his eyes it looked like she was leading him the same path. Well, except that when they got down to the ground floor she directed him to one set of large double doors.

“The Great Hall be through there,” she said. “Does Harry Potter need something else from Mipsy?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Mipsy be going back to her other duties, then. Please to be calling if Mipsy’s help is needed,” she said with a bright smile, and vanished.

Smiling to himself, Harry shook his head and pushed at the doors. They moved remarkably easy, and he found himself in a room that could have shamed a cathedral. There were a few pillars along the walls, and four long tables—currently empty—stretching along the length of the room. At the far end, on a slightly raised platform and against the backdrop of a huge tapestry with the Hogwarts crest on it, sat a table going crosswise compared to the other four. It also wasn’t empty. A few people were sitting on the other side of it, and one of them, an old man with white hair, a long beard and an almost blindingly purple robe and pointed hat, now stood up.

“Ah, Harry Potter,” he said warmly, holding out his hand in welcome. “Come, come, my boy,” he went on, and Harry’s stomach turned over at being called that. “Find yourself an available chair.”

With little other recourse, he approached the head table. The only people he recognised were McGonagall and Snapey—or whatever his name really was. The former gave him a small smile and the latter glared. It struck him a bit harder than he’d thought it would, since he knew it wasn’t heartfelt, and he gnawed his lower lip uncertainly as he rounded the table and went to stand next to McGonagall on the side furthest from Snapey. He didn’t see Quirrell at the table, and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed over that.

“Mind if I sit here, ma’am?” he asked.

“Not at all, Harry,” she responded with a nod.

“You’ve already met Professor McGonagall, of course,” the man with the purple robes said brightly. “May I introduce you to some more of the Hogwarts staff. Septima Vector, who teaches Arithmancy.” A calm woman with long dark hair nodded at him. “Severus Snape, who teaches Potions.” Oh. Good thing Harry hadn’t attempted to address him by name, then. Snape made no movement in greeting, only shot him another glare, to all appearances annoyed by his very existence. It sure looked and felt real. “And Silvanus Kettleburn, who teaches Care of Magical Creatures.”

By the looks of the old Professor, Care of Magical Creatures was exceedingly dangerous, judging by the burn scar on the right side of his face and the fact that one of his arms appeared to be made out of wood—although Harry wasn’t entirely sure it was a prosthetic arm, especially when the man used it to wave at Harry with and the fingers wiggled just like normal ones would. Would, heh. Puns aside, was he some kind of not-entirely-human, then?

“I’m quite sure a couple more of them will wander in eventually,” the man in purple said, and Harry’s stomach sank as he saw the man’s clear blue eyes twinkle brightly. He looked away quickly, hiding it as curiosity in everything else. To be honest, it wasn’t that hard since Harry _was_ curious about pretty much everything in the room. “And I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at this school.”

At that, Harry’s stomach didn’t just turn over or sink. It was weighted down with a hard knot heavy as lead. That was Dumbledore? The one man the Being had warned him about was his magical guardian? Oh, this really couldn’t get any better, could it? No wonder it/he hadn’t wanted Harry to reveal anything. He didn’t even want to know what its/his reaction would be were Harry to explain _this_ little gem.

“Nice to meet you all,” he said, because something had to be said. “And like the Headmaster said, I’m Harry. I guess I’ll be staying here until school starts.”

“Ah,” Professor Snape said, speaking up for the first time, and his voice dripped with scorn, just like when he’d said Harry’s surname the first time. “I guess it’d be too much to hope for that you’ll be leaving us once it does?”

“What? No, I– No!” Harry stammered. He forced himself to remember that it was just an act, that Snape wasn’t _really_ trying to hurt him by suggesting he didn’t belong at Hogwarts, but that wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it’d be.

“Severus, really!” McGonagall bit out. She turned to Harry, lightly put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind him, Harry. His tongue has always been sharper than most.”

“Indeed it is,” a male voice said, and Harry automatically looked to Professor Kettleburn. But it wasn’t he who’d spoken. “Down here.”

Harry looked down, and saw… well, a midget—no, that wasn’t the polite term, was it?—smile up at him. With a wave of his wand, which unlike the rest of him _wasn’t_ shorter than normal, the chair next to Harry got shorter and shorter legs. The Professor—or so Harry assumed—hopped on, and the legs grew taller again until the man was seated comfortably at the table.

“Wow,” was all Harry could say.

“Filius Flitwick,” the man introduced himself before the Headmaster could say anything. “I teach Charms here at Hogwarts, though I confess that at times Transfiguration is what makes my daily life easier.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Harry said, trying to think of something clever to add and failing miserably. “I can’t wait to learn magic,” he finally offered with a wistful sigh, thinking of his wand still locked up in its wrapped box. “Is it very difficult, making your chair shrink and grow like that?”

Flitwick chuckled, though it wasn’t an unkind laugh. “Oh, it’s hardly the stuff you’ll be starting with. If I know Minerva right, you’ll start off with seemingly insignificant things–”

“Insignificant!?” McGonagall sounded very offended.

“I do beg your pardon, Minerva. I did say _seemingly_ insignificant. You can hardly expect the average eleven-year-old to instinctively realise how transfiguring a matchstick into a needle is going to be of any use to them.”

She sighed. “Maybe not. You have a point.”

At that, Harry clapped his hand to his mouth in an effort to stifle his chuckle that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

“Something amusing?” Her dry tone had nothing on Professor Snape’s, and she’d been so very friendly so far, so Harry didn’t take it as a sign to apologise and stop talking.

“Point,” Harry said, after lowering his hand again. He did manage to keep his voice level despite his amusement. “I’d expect a classroom with a bunch of needles would have more than one.”

After a moment, a merry chortle burst out of Flitwick, and a chuckle came from Dumbledore a few chairs further away—Harry wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed over the latter or not. “Why, I imagine you’re right, Mr Potter,” the Charms Professor said. “In any case, it’ll probably take you a couple of years until you’re ready to adjust the details of an object, but once you get the hang of it I imagine it’s not really any more difficult than getting dressed in the morning.”

“Some, of course,” McGonagall added, “find it more difficult than that, but your parents both had some talent for Transfiguration, so you might do better than most.”

Harry looked up at that, eager to hear anything about his parents, but he didn’t have time to even comment on it before he was quite efficiently distracted by the food appearing out of nowhere on the table.

“Ah,” he heard Dumbledore say. “It looks delicious.”

Harry had to admit it did, even if he wasn’t too eager to agree with Dumbledore on pure principle. It looked even better than the Sunday dinners he’d sometimes cooked for the Dursleys—when they didn’t take themselves to a restaurant or Dudley nagged them into ordering pizza—and while it might not be very modest to say so he thought himself a damn good cook. Or chef, or whatever it was called. The best thing about cooking that kind of meal was that he needed to taste it at times to make sure it was up to the Dursleys’ standards, which meant that even if they weren’t happy enough with him to let him at the remains on their plates, he got at least a few mouthfuls to eat.

He cautiously glanced around at the others to make sure he didn’t commit any faux pas, then carefully served himself a slice of the glazed roast in front of him once he saw the others weren’t waiting. McGonagall passed him a tray of oven-roasted vegetables and potato wedges, then nodded with apparent satisfaction when he scooped some of it up without discrimination. Harry almost frowned. Had she expected him to be picky about the vegetables? Sure, he knew some of his former classmates were, and Dudley certainly was, but how could Harry be that, when first of all he had very little idea of what he liked and not, and secondly when any food was better than none?

He did feel an odd mix of satisfaction and guilt at seeing that he’d served himself a small fraction of what everyone else seemed to be eating—even Professor Flitwick, who certainly didn’t have the advantage of size. On the one hand, they couldn’t accuse him of taking advantage of their hospitality. On the other… he hoped they wouldn’t urge him to eat as much as they seemed to do. He was quite sure he’d be sick if he tried.

Just as he was about to pour gravy over his meat, the doors burst open, causing his hands to jerk. Fortunately, nothing ended up on the table, and he carefully set the boat down before looking up. The huge man they’d run into—almost literally—at Gringotts was striding up toward them. What was his name again?

“Ah, Rubeus!” the Headmaster said. No, that hadn’t been what McGonagall had called him. “I’m glad you decided to join us. I do believe they’ve decided to serve your favourite tonight.”

The man was grinning broadly. “I could smell it from outside,” he said in his broad accent. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Harry, this is Rubeus Hagrid.” Ah! Hagrid, that’s the name he remembered. “He’s the groundskeeper here at Hogwarts. Rubeus, meet Harry Potter.” Hagrid stumbled over his own feet and almost fell over. “He’ll be staying here with us instead of waiting until September.”

“Harry Potter?” the giant of a man said, his voice thickening with emotion. “Oh, last time I saw you, you were just a baby.” Either he’d forgotten about meeting Harry at Gringotts, or he hadn’t really paid attention to him.

Harry blinked slowly. Just a baby? “You’ve met me before?” He wasn’t surprised the Dursleys hadn’t told him. They were bound to think Hagrid’s size unnatural, after all.

“Of course! I was the one who… Err…” He trailed off, then glanced around the other people. “Ah, perhaps this isn’t the place?” It seemed more a question than a statement.

“Perhaps not the type of discussion for the dinner table, no,” Dumbledore seemed to agree, and even from where he sat Harry could see those eyes twinkle with amusement. “But I’m sure Harry wouldn’t mind talking to you a bit after we’ve finished eating.”

Hagrid beamed at Harry, and Harry felt a moment’s annoyance that Dumbledore seemed to think he had any right to tell Harry what to do. Except possibly he did have the right, being Harry’s guardian here in the wizarding world. And… well, to be honest Harry rather wanted to have a discussion with Hagrid anyway. Not only to hear just when they’d met before but to see if he could get some more details on the ‘errand’ Dumbledore had sent him on that was so secret.

“Sure,” he therefore said. “I’d like that.” But while he wouldn’t mind talking to Hagrid later, he was still somewhat relieved that both seats next to him were already taken.

Hagrid carefully sat down on the outermost chair on one side, and Harry almost expected the chair to buckle under him. But apparently the chairs here at Hogwarts were sturdier than most, because it didn’t even groan under the man’s weight. Then he stared in horrified fascination as twice as much food as what the other adults had served themselves was slowly being piled up on Hagrid’s plate.

“Pumpkin juice?” McGonagall asked, and he turned his attention to the older woman. She was holding up a pitcher.

Harry blinked. “Sure,” he said, pushing his glass over. “Thank you.” He had no idea whether he’d like it or not, since he usually had only water to drink, but like with food he was certainly willing to try.

The juice tasted odd, but after taking another slow sip and contemplating it he decided he didn’t really mind it. The food tasted as good as it looked, and for the first time in his life Harry ran into the issue of _wanting_ to eat more but knowing he’d regret it if he did. Well, technically he’d known that feeling before, but that was because the _Dursleys_ would make him regret it, not his own stomach.

He hesitated over his empty plate but then chose not to take anymore food and instead set his cutlery in the ‘I’m finished’ position; he had no idea if wizards and witches had the same table etiquette rules, but he’d seen the Dursleys—the two adults, at any rate—do it too often to not have picked up on it. Looking around the table he found, not too surprisingly, that he was the first to finish. Biting his lip nervously, he wondered if he was supposed to ask to leave the table or wait for the others to be done as well.

A soft clunk on the table in front of him had him look down to see one of the small—but no longer miniaturised—vials McGonagall had been given at the hospital. Right. One after each meal for a week. Which meant that for the next week, he’d be allowed and expected to eat three times a day, and wasn’t that just the most novel idea? The other potion was once a day, and the third one, for the healed break, was in the mornings. Maybe McGonagall had set the calcium supplement in the mornings as well?

Dudley had always complained that medicine tasted too bad to stand, and the pain medicine he’d been given at the hospital earlier that day hadn’t exactly refuted that idea. Hoping this medicine didn’t taste _too_ bad, considering he’d be taking it a lot, Harry lifted the phial and tossed its contents into his mouth, figuring he’d swallow it quickly to make the taste go away faster. Only to realise it tasted very sweet, sweeter than the juice or the squash he’d been given earlier that summer. Liquid sugar, he found himself comparing it to. Or sweets. He sure wouldn’t mind having this for dessert the next week, he thought as he tried to shake the last few drops out on his tongue.

Leaning back in his chair, he settled in to listen to the others’ conversation, but after only a minute or two McGonagall turned to him.

“You don’t have to remain at table if you’re finished,” she said quietly. “You can leave if you want to.”

While that was good to know, Harry still hesitated. “Well, I thought I’d wait for Mr Hagrid.”

She gave him one of her small smiles. “I’m sure Hagrid can find you. Why don’t you take the time to explore a bit outside? Just make sure you don’t go into the forest; all sorts of dangerous creatures live in there.”

Nodding, Harry slipped off his chair and went around the table. He paused by Hagrid and looked up at him. After a few seconds, Hagrid met his eyes. “I’ll be outside for when you’re done, sir,” he said.

“Oh, just call me Hagrid,” the man said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Everyone does.” Apart from Dumbledore, it seemed. “You go on, then. If I can’t find you, I’ll give you a holler.”

While Harry didn’t doubt Hagrid’s lung capacity, he rather thought it’d be easier to just get a house-elf to find Harry instead, but he didn’t say that. He only nodded and headed for the doors. He could feel eyes in his back, and while he was eager to escape those looks he refused to run.

The next half hour or so was spent wandering the grounds. He obeyed the instruction to not go into the forest, but he did walk along its edge for a bit, looking in between the trees. He found a stone hut with a large pumpkin patch next to it—probably the source of the juice he’d just had. He found a courtyard with one of those covered walkways along the wall that made him think of a monastery. He found a neat-looking rock next to the lake that seemed perfect to climb up on to sit and look out across the water. He found a tree that seemed to be aggressively sentient, instantly honing in on where he was and whipping its branches in his direction as if trying to either capture or kill him. He very carefully did _not_ get any closer to it.

“Oi! Harry!”

The shout drew his attention, and he turned to see Hagrid approaching him, one arm waving eagerly. Hoping Hagrid hadn’t been looking for him too long—surely he couldn’t have spent all this time just eating?—he walked that way, meeting the too-tall man halfway. Or a quarter of the way, considering the comparative lengths of their strides.

“Want to come in to me for a cuppa?” Hagrid asked. He waved one arm toward the forest, and it took Harry a moment or two to realise he meant that little cabin near the pumpkin patch.

“Sure, I guess.” It was getting late, after all, and it was a bit colder than he was used to. He followed Hagrid back to what apparently was his home, reflecting that it was about as polished and refined as the man himself and he really shouldn’t have been surprised over who lived there.

The inside looked about as shabby as the outside. Not that Harry minded, of course. No, he’d have been proud to call the hut his own home, as it was miles better than a cupboard. Unfortunately, he didn’t have many seconds to take in what the house actually looked like as a large dog came over and all but bowled Harry over in its eagerness.

“Down, Fang, down!” Hagrid ordered to little avail as Harry was drenched in dog slobber. It wasn’t until Hagrid physically pulled the dog away that Harry could wipe the drool off his face and begin to mourn the appearance of his new clothes. “Sorry ‘bout that, Harry. He doesn’t mean any harm by it.”

“I wouldn’t think any dog attempts to murder someone by drowning them in slobber,” Harry said, giving in and using his other sleeve on his face as well. “No harm done, I’m sure.” He could probably get his shirt clean again if he washed it before bed.

After a few minutes of first ordering, then wheedling and cajoling, Hagrid managed to get Fang to head to the dog bed—with obvious reluctance—and lie down, and Harry could finally relax a little and look around the hut.

Like his first impression had indicated, it was cramped and somewhat dingy, though Harry rather guessed the presence of a dog didn’t really make it easier to keep everything clean. He remembered all too well how much extra work was required when Aunt Marge came by with Ripper, and that was _after_ he was housebroken.

The furniture didn’t help with the cramped feeling either, as it was mostly Hagrid-sized, and he felt keenly every inch he lacked in height as he climbed up on a chair and knelt there to boost himself up a little further. A mug was clonked down on the table in front of him, and Hagrid spent some time busying himself with filling his kettle with water and hanging it above the fire in the fireplace.

Really, one would think wizards and witches still lived in the Middle Ages. He thought of his shirt and shivered. He’d probably have to hand wash it.

Then Hagrid sat down opposite him, and just looked at him, his eyes gradually getting shinier and shinier, until he inhaled with a loud sniffle. “Oh, you look just like your dad, Harry.”

While Harry rather doubted his dad had ever been this underfed and scrawny, he couldn’t help but hope that maybe he had been as a kid, and that meant that Harry had a chance to grow up to be tall as well, just like his dad seemed to have been as an adult. “Thanks.”

“Apart from your eyes, of course.”

Harry nodded, as that wasn’t the first time he’d been given that information today. First from Ollivander, then from Snape. Of course, he’d heard a lot more from Snape than Ollivander—unless you counted the descriptions of his parents’ wands, which he didn’t recall anyhow—so it was a tricky topic and he’d better steer them away from it before he accidentally revealed he knew something he officially wasn’t supposed to know. “You said you’d met me before?” he therefore asked to divert Hagrid’s attention.

Fortunately it didn’t seem like the large man was all that perceptive, because he only nodded and accepted the subject change without apparent protest. “I took you from Godric’s Hollow to Dumbledore that night. Well, it took me a whole day and a bit, since I was never allowed to learn how to Apparate, and there’s not a fireplace built to fit me these days. But I got you there, safe and sound.”

Harry frowned. “To Dumbledore?”

“Saved you too, I reckon. Your G… Err, that is, the guy what betrayed your parents to You-Know-Who got there, probably to grab you and hand you over, but I refused to hand you over.” Now it was Hagrid’s turn to frown. “Though come to think of it, I’m not sure why he gave me his motorbike if that’s what he was after.”

“Motorbike?”

“Oh, yeah. A marvel it was, too. Charmed to fly and everything.”

The words sparked a recollection in Harry’s brain. “I dreamt of a flying motorcycle a few weeks ago.” If six weeks could be counted as ‘a few’. That had been the night before Dudley’s birthday, one of those rare occasions where he’d had dreams entirely unrelated to the Being and therefore memorable. Of course, what happened on Dudley’s birthday had made it fairly memorable in itself even if it hadn’t been in a good way. Had the dream been completely random, or had it been caused by things he didn’t actually remember? Or had he seen a flying motorbike somewhere more recently and simply dismissed it from his conscious mind as impossible thanks to the Dursleys?

Hagrid, unaware of his thoughts, seemed to brighten. “Did you now?” he asked, clearly assuming Harry did, after all, remember him.

“Yeah. I don’t remember any details about it, though. Just the flying.”

“I should dig it out,” Hagrid said thoughtfully. “See if it still works. Maybe I could give you a ride on it again.”

Harry smiled. “I’d like that.” Shaking his head a little, he thought back on what they’d been talking about before the motorcycle came up. What had Hagrid been about to say? Harry’s what? How did the guy who betrayed his parents have anything to do with him? And like he’d said, why would the man hand his bike over to Hagrid instead of fighting him for Harry? Surely if he’d betrayed Harry’s parents to Voldemort he wouldn’t have any scruples against attacking Hagrid, despite Hagrid’s size. “Who _did_ betray my parents?” he asked.

Hagrid looked away. “I shouldn’t be talking about this, Harry. And you shouldn’t want to hear it.”

Harry scowled at him. “Considering I know next to nothing about my parents, I believe I _should_ want to hear about it.”

Hagrid stood up abruptly and went over to the teapot, scooping up tea leaves from a tin and dropping them in. Harry was trying to figure out what else to say to convince him when he returned to the table with the teapot and two large mugs, one of which he placed in front of Harry. He sat with a heavy sigh and nodded. “I reckon you’ve a right to.” When he met Harry’s eyes again, his eyes were shinier than usual. “I just… Well, your parents were in hiding, you know, since they wanted to keep you safe from the war.” Harry nodded. That much he’d heard already. “They used a special spell that kept everyone from remembering where they lived, but the problem is… the spell requires a Secret Keeper, so you’ll have someone able to tell the people you want to know. Anyone else wouldn’t even be able to _say_ the address. The spell would stop them.”

Harry swallowed. That sounded very similar to how he wasn’t able to communicate names or addresses in his dreams. A little bit too similar, if he was honest. He nodded his understanding. “So… the person who betrayed them was their Secret Keeper?”

A loud sniffle. “He was. They thought they could trust him. He was their best friend, after all, and your Godfather.”

Oh. Oh wow. Harry hadn’t quite expected that. “My Godfather? I have a Godfather?”

“They should have known. Blood will out, you know, Harry. He was from a bad family, and he’d managed to convince your parents he’d left all that behind, but… he must have been a follower of You-Know-Who all along!”

Had Hagrid even heard his question? “What happened to him?” If he had a Godfather, why had he never known? Betrayal aside—though there was something about it all that didn’t make sense, but on the other hand Harry might not have all the information necessary to make sense of it—he ought to have known, right?

“Oh, no need to worry, Harry,” Hagrid said with a smile that looked forced. “He’s in Azkaban.”

Trust Hagrid to completely misunderstand. “I’m not worried. What’s Azkaban?”

Hagrid blinked, clearly not having expected that question. “Why, it’s the most secure prison in the country! Guarded by Dementors. No one ever escapes.”

Prison, huh? That did explain something of why Harry hadn’t known about him. Aunt Petunia can’t have known about him either, though, because she’d have loved to throw his ‘Godfather in prison’ at him. It would be just the thing, in her mind, to emphasise just how poorly Harry’s mother had chosen in life. Never mind that it was her own sister she was badmouthing. “When’s he getting out?” He’d been there for ten years already, hadn’t he? Unless it’d taken them a while to catch him, that was. Surely accessory to two murders couldn’t give that harsh a sentence, could it?

“Oh, he’s not getting out. He’s in there for life, you know.”

“Life?” Harry exclaimed, staring at Hagrid. “But… _why_?”

“He’s a murderer, Harry!”

“If you’re talking about my parents, I thought Voldemort did that.”

Hagrid flinched visibly at hearing the name. “Well, yes. But… After I took off with you, he went after another friend of theirs. Peter Pettigrew. And he took out not only Pettigrew but also everyone who was there. Twelve Muggles, whose only crime was being around!”

For a moment, the words made no sense. It was too abstract. That was something you read in the newspapers about things happening ‘somewhere else’, like when that aeroplane was blown up somewhere over Scotland a few years back. That had been over 250 people dead, and Harry had no more been able to grasp that back then than he was now. But thirteen people. That was… that was half the number of children in his class last year. Harry didn’t know them, but just imagining half his class _gone_ because of one man’s actions… He swallowed. “Oh,” he said. “Did… did they find out why?”

“Because he’s a Death Eater,” Hagrid said in a voice closer to a growl. “They hate Muggles.”

“He said that?”

“Wasn’t much talking done to him. He was laughing when they arrested him, just after the slaughter, saying over and over again that he’d killed them. Open-shut, yeah? They just threw him in there.” He picked up the teapot and poured them both some. “I don’t have any milk, but I’m sure I have sugar somewhere here if you want. Or lemons.”

Harry ignored the question of what to put in his tea as he frowned, silently repeating Hagrid’s previous words. “But I thought a trial was for finding out the motive and all.”

A scoffing bark of laughter. “Wasn’t no trial, Harry. None needed for that kind of…” Hagrid’s voice lowered to a loud mutter. “Can’t even call him a person. Not after what he did.”

“So, let me get this straight…” Harry swallowed. “He gave you his motorbike to take me somewhere safe. He ran off, thirteen people died and left him the only surviving witness. And there was no trial to make sure he actually was the one who did it?” There _had_ to be something Harry was missing. Some vital piece of information. Because if not, then there was something very rotten in the state of Denmark. Or, in this case, wizarding UK.

“I… well, I suppose… I mean,” Hagrid stammered. “When you say it like that, it doesn’t make sense, but there was more! But I’m not an Auror, am I? I’m not privy to that sort of thing. I trust Dumbledore, and Dumbledore would have said something if things hadn’t been right.”

Oh, of course. Because if _Dumbledore_ said so, everything was just peachy. Sighing, Harry shoved the issue aside. “Alright, then. Can I visit him?”

“Visit? Why would you want to visit him?”

Merlin save him from slow thinkers. Harry near gnashed his teeth in frustration, but then realised that if Hagrid _hadn’t_ been so slow, he probably wouldn’t have found out even this much. He took a deep breath. “Because I want to ask him why he did it.” If he did it, but like Hagrid had said, there was probably information they weren’t allowed to see or hear about.

Hagrid stared at him for a few seconds, then bowed his head and stared down at the table instead. “Probably wouldn’t do you much good, Harry. Expect there’s not much left of his mind by now.” A quick glance up before he returned to his study of the table. “It’s the Dementors, you know. They do that when you’re around them for too long. Suck out all the good in you and makes you relive the bad.”

It felt as though Dudley or one of his gang had punched Harry in the stomach again, only without the pain. Just the sickening, nauseating feeling and the sensation of not getting enough air into his lungs. Hagrid’s words swirled around in his head like the taunts of his cousin or his friends. Locked up for life. Without a trial to make absolutely sure he was guilty. With ‘Dementors’, whatever they were, that affected your mind and in the long term either drove you insane or made you a vegetable, depending on what Hagrid meant by ‘not much left’.

It took all of Harry’s effort to not show what he felt as he forced himself to nod slowly. “I guess not,” he finally managed. Hagrid was clearly not the person to ask about his Godfather. And just in case Hagrid mentioned their conversation to someone else, he might be better off with letting it be for a while. It wouldn’t do to seem _too_ eager. While Harry did have fairly legitimate concerns, there was something inside of him that felt… wary. Something that didn’t want to stir the waters too much.

“Sorry,” Hagrid mumbled, still not looking up. “Didn’t want to get you down.”

Harry took a deep breath and pushed his thoughts aside for later examination, and then he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Hagrid. It’s better to _know_ than to have some vague story about how they died. Professor McGonagall told me a little bit, just before she helped me get my supplies, but… Well, she left me with more questions than answers.” Maybe that wasn’t entirely fair on McGonagall, but it also wasn’t entirely untrue. “Did your errand go fine, by the way?”

Hagrid looked up. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head firmly. “I shouldn’t talk about that.”

He probably shouldn’t, no. “Oh, I’m not asking for any details,” Harry assured him. He’d probably get more out of him if he pretended not to be interested, after all. “You don’t have to tell me anything about what the errand was.”

“Well, it went fine. Except for the trip in those carts. I really hate them, you know.”

Harry nodded, already having guessed he’d been down to the vaults. “I found I rather liked them, actually. I’ve always wanted to go on a roller-coaster, but the Dursleys wouldn’t let me. Err, that’s my relatives who I lived with.” He wasn’t about to say that they took care of him, because clearly they hadn’t ever done that.

Either Hagrid had been informed of McGonagall’s intentions, which Harry rather doubted, or he hadn’t caught the use of past tense, because he just nodded. “I’ve never liked that sort of thing. Makes me throw up.”

It did? And still he managed to drive a flying motorcycle for more than twelve hours? Speaking of which, was that even possible? Harry wasn’t exactly that good at distances and how long it took to drive them, but… the island they lived on wasn’t _that_ big, was it? And if Hagrid was flying, he wouldn’t need to pay attention to traffic or roads. He could just fly straight across. Then again, maybe it’d taken that long because he’d had to stop every now and then to either throw up or settle his stomach enough to _not_ throw up. And for food and rest, presumably.

And then a thought struck him. “Hagrid? Do people regularly store things other than money in their vaults?” Hagrid looked almost warily at him, and didn’t reply, so Harry went on, “I mean, whatever it was you were there for—and I’m not asking about it!” he hurriedly added when Hagrid pulled back just a little. “But whatever it was, I’m betting it wasn’t money. And it just made me wonder if that was a common thing to do. My vault only had money in it, though, but Mr Griphook said it was… oh, what was it? A trust vault?” Not that he’d forgotten what it was called, but pretending to be even less used to the magical world than he was, that he was relying on Hagrid’s help, would probably help him gain the large man’s trust.

After another second or two, Hagrid nodded. “That’s pretty normal,” he said. “Old family artefacts, keepsakes, that sort of thing. A trust vault’s just your parents’ way of providing for you. A lot of old families do that. I reckon it’s a handy way to teach children how to handle money, because, well, some of them have quite a lot of that.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. Based on what was in his trust vault, he guessed his family was one of those that had ‘quite a lot’ of money. He made himself smile at Hagrid. “I have to admit I’m a bit curious to see if there’s some in the vaults I’m not allowed to access. It’d be another clue as to what my parents were like, you know?”

For some reason, that made Hagrid light up. Moments later, Harry found out why when the man blurted out, “Oh, you can come talk to me, if you like. I’ve been working here since the forties, you know, so I was here when your parents went to school.”

Harry blinked and peered up into the shaggy face. The forties? Harry did some quick maths in his head. That was fifty years ago—forty if it was closer to the end of the decade—and if Hagrid had started working here directly after school, that’d make him closer to sixty or seventy years old. He sure didn’t look like it. “I’d like that,” he said, pretending his surprise had only been because of the offer and that the man’s age had had nothing to do with it. He hadn’t expected his excuse to divert Hagrid’s attention from his ‘errand’ quite that effectively, but he’d take it. Plus, he did want to know more. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, Harry. Now, it’s getting a bit late, and I’ve my duties to see to, so you’d better head back up to the castle.”

“I will,” Harry said with a nod. “And thank you. For the tea–” which still sat mostly untouched, making Harry wonder if Hagrid really had duties or if it was his way of trying to avoid further questions, “–and for telling me about what happened and offering to tell me more about my parents. I do appreciate it.” Standing up, he held out his arms to offer a hug, both because he hadn’t really had many in his life, and because most people—probably not Snape, though—would then think he was more fond of them than he necessarily was. Hagrid jumped at it, pulling him up close and all but squishing him.

“You’re welcome, Harry. You’re _always_ welcome here,” the giant of a man rumbled in his ear, sounding halfway to tears and proving he was part of the group that was affected by hugs.

Fortunately he let go without forcing Harry to wriggle his way free, and then followed Harry to the door and watched him head up to the castle. Halfway to the huge doors Harry turned around one last time and could still see the dark shadow framed by the yellow light of the doorway. Smiling to himself, he waved and thought he saw Hagrid wave back. It’d been a good day, he decided. He might not have weaselled out what it was Hagrid had been at Gringotts for, but he’d found out a lot of useful things and made sure he’d be welcome to visit Hagrid again. A very good day indeed.

It was just a shame he couldn’t talk about it with the Being. That had always been one of his highlights, being able to seek support and comfort and, on the rare occasion, share amusing tales with his night-time friend. Now, unless he wanted the Being and the Host to figure out just who he was, he couldn’t talk about anything that happened to him during the day. Slowly trudging back toward his guest room, he swore silently the entire way there. How was he going to even explain it to them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this, I hadn’t planned this many chapters prior to the start of Hogwarts. And while originally this would have been the last one before September, it no longer is ^^; Some day, I promise I’ll learn to plan my writing and stick to a timeline instead of just sitting down to see where my fingers take me. Today is not that day.
> 
> Again, I refuse to type out Hagrid’s accent. I also refuse to believe that he’s born in 1928 and as such is almost 63 years old at this point. 
> 
> And as usual, if you notice any mistakes (whether typos or potential plot holes), do tell me so I can fix them =)


	9. Presence of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter only exists thanks to Shortsandramblings, who made me aware of a glaring mistake in my assumptions. Thank you, and I hope it answers your questions ;)

_...in which Voldemort makes a move, needs to adjust his plans, and is forced to take measures he’d have preferred not to._

 

 _We’re going to Diagon Alley today_ , Voldemort informed his Host firmly, ignoring the conversations going on in the staff room.

Quirinus swallowed. _You’re certain, my lord?_

Voldemort’s mental nostrils flared in anger, and he felt his Host shrink away from him. _I would not have said so had I not been certain_ , he snapped.

 _Yes, my lord, of course not, I didn’t mean to doubt you_ , Quirinus blurted out so quickly he’d have stumbled on the words had they been spoken out loud.

He was just about to order Quirinus to take them from Hogwarts when he sensed the third part of their conglomerate mind join them, the child’s—he’d said he’d never call him ‘boy’ again, and kept to that promise even in the private parts of his own mind—presence weak and diffuse. His temper fading into concern, he hurriedly moved to intercept and catch his Companion. _What’s wrong, mine? Why are you here now?_

 _I did it_ , his Companion managed to communicate, and as the child went on, the reason for the weakness became all too clear. Fury rose up inside Voldemort. Even though he had originally suggested it, someone had hurt _his_ Companion, and this was a lot worse than the bruises his Companion had worried about. _What if she doesn’t find me?_ his Companion went on. _Can’t move. Can’t get to the door. Don’t think I can make enough noise to draw attention._

Voldemort sent a private command to Quirinus, and as his Host began to make his excuses and leave, he turned his full attention to his child. _I’m sure she wouldn’t leave without seeing you_ , he said soothingly. He might not have come to know Minerva well on his own, despite vaguely remembering her as a girl from his own time as a student, but he had plenty of memories courtesy of Quirinus. She wouldn’t give up. _Not when she sent you a letter informing you of when she’d arrive._

_But–_

_Shh, mine._ Thinking quickly, he made a decision. He hadn’t expected the attempt to obtain a letter to work, not at the first try, but it had. Despite being raised by Muggles—Muggles!—his child seemed to have a better grasp of his magic than most children, just like he had. _I’m going to teach you one thing. I will lend you of my strength if necessary._ He smiled at the hungry attention from his Companion. _Sonorous_ , he said, enunciating the word clearly. _It’s a spell to amplify anything you say._ How to explain it in terms the child would understand? _Like a megaphone_ , he settled for. _Just say the word and focus really hard on making yourself heard._ Was he doing the right thing? _Without a wand, it’ll be difficult to cast it, but it shouldn’t be obvious you used an actual spell. Hopefully they’ll just assume it was raw, accidental magic answering your need._ And if he could pull it off… Then Voldemort would just have further proof that the child was indeed meant for him. _What time did you say–_ There was movement then, and Voldemort cut himself off as he directed his Host’s eyes in the right direction. Oh bollocks, was Minerva leaving already? _Wake up now, mine. You said noon. That’s now._ Of course, he couldn’t remember if his Companion had even specified a time, but it was almost noon, and Minerva was leaving. And why in Merlin’s name had he come to think of her by her first name? Shaking that notion off, he focused his Occlumency and forcibly ejected the child from Quirinus’ mindscape.

For a brief moment once he’d been left alone with only the Host, he felt the urge to swear like those brats at the orphanage, but no. He’d always considered himself better than that, and so he held back the urge. He’d forgotten about it. In his eagerness to get hold of that Stone, he’d actually forgotten that his Companion would be running all over Diagon Alley today. Perhaps it’d be better to wait? Just to make sure they didn’t meet up? He’d be able to keep that infernal Headmaster out, of course, but should the child give any sign… All it took was one look inside his mind, and the Headmaster would know just who Voldemort was secreting himself inside. But no. He couldn’t wait. Every day, every _hour_ he delayed was one more hour the Headmaster had to move it. He had to go now, while he still knew where it was kept.

Besides, he was curious. His Companion had never been able to communicate his name, or where he lived. Just why that was, he had no idea. It hadn’t been an issue between him and Quirinus. Then again, he had no idea why a child would end up in his mind at night, either. Surely that wasn’t normal. Was it a child of one of his followers, perhaps? But no, that had never been the case before, and he’d seen two generations of them, in some cases three. Shaking his head, he put the question aside as he had so many times before. It had never been answered in all this time, and that was a strong reason for going there. He _hated_ not knowing something.

 _Let’s go_ , he grumbled. They needed to fix their alibi first, after all.

A short walk later, they were at the gates of Hogwarts and the edge of the wards. Voldemort sat back and let Quirinus take them to Diagon Alley and head into Flourish and Blotts. Finding the book that would be their alibi turned out to take a little longer than necessary, and as they made their way down toward the Leaky Cauldron to meet their contact, book safely shrunk in their pocket, Voldemort had Quirinus keep an eye out for Miner… McGonagall.

 _Maybe they’re not here yet?_ Quirinus offered nervously.

 _Or maybe they’ve been and gone_ , Voldemort growled back, trying to keep his temper under control. It wasn’t Quirinus’ fault, not as such. _Let’s hope our contact has done that, at least,_ he added as they reached the pub without having spotted McGonagall anywhere.

Quirinus smiled nervously at the barkeep, clearly sensing Voldemort’s disdain for the man—or rather for the man’s name, not that he’d specify that to his Host. Really. _Tom_. “D-do I h-h-have any l-letters?” they asked.

The ancient man, who’d worked there even when Voldemort was a child, peered up at them. “Name?”

Quirinus pulled a face. _Why did I let you talk me into affecting a stutter, my lord? It makes my name nearly impossible to say!_ “Q-qu-quirrell,” he got out, his refusal to add his first name to the mess highly amusing.

“Hm, it sounds familiar,” the barkeep mused. “Let me see.”

Inside his Host’s mind, Voldemort paced impatiently as the man slowly moved to a small chest in the back. Seconds trickled by, one by one, and an eternity passed before the old man returned to them, a sealed letter in his hands. It was difficult not to take control over their body and snatch the letter from him, but he raised his Occlumency walls and strove for control, letting Quirinus deal with it.

They had just withdrawn to a corner table to read the instructions their contact had left for them when the door to one of the more private parlours opened, revealing Minerva McGonagall and a boy who surely couldn’t be eleven yet. But who else could it be?

The half-read letter forgotten, they stared at the shy-seeming child, taking in all the details they’d never before been able to catch. The dark hair, the over-sized clothes, the unwillingness to look up and meet people’s eyes. Fury burned inside him as he looked upon the results of the abuse _his_ Companion had suffered. And then his world shattered.

“Bless my soul,” the barkeep whispered, but it seemed the entire pub was holding its breath, trying to listen. Just like Voldemort’s Host was doing. “Harry Potter, here. It’s an honour.”

 _What!?_ Potter. The family that had thwarted him, so many years ago. The brat who was prophesied to have the power to vanquish him. Surging forward, he reached for their wand.

And stopped.

No. No, he _knew_ this child. This child wouldn’t willingly harm him. This child was _his_ , Potter or not. And yet… Vengeance had been one of the very things driving him, these past ten years. Vengeance on this very child, for what had been done to him that night. What was he supposed to do now?

 _My lord, please,_ Quirinus begged, unable to force Voldemort back and reclaim command of his own body.

With a silent snarl, Voldemort retreated to the back of Quirinus’ mind again, leaving the Ravenclaw in control once more. _Very well._ He thought quickly. The identity of his Companion changed a lot of things, and he had a very important decision to make, but regardless of that his presence here provided them with a wonderful opportunity. _Go, my Host. Make…_ nice _with him._

For a moment, Quirinus stared at him. Then he seemed to understand the added layer of protection in doing so, because no one would ever expect _Voldemort_ to be friendly to the Boy Who Lived. _Yes, my lord_ , he acknowledged, putting the letter inside their robes and making their way toward the mob of people surrounding the boy and McGonagall. Voldemort drew back even further, but kept looking out through Quirinus’ eyes. He didn’t want to miss a single thing.

It took ages for them to make their way to the centre, but then they were there. Voldemort held his breath—figuratively—as he took in that glorious shade of green of his Companion’s eyes. He barely heard Quirinus stutter out whatever phrases he’d come up with, or McGonagall’s introduction of the two. He was far too busy looking at his Companion, too busy enjoying the thrill running through him at them finally meeting face to face—again, figuratively, as he had no face of his own for now—and too busy trying to figure out whether to claim the child or kill him.

“Nice to meet you, Professor,” the child finally got out, and Voldemort had to wonder… Had the child recognised Quirinus’ shape from when they first met him, or was he just overwhelmed by the many people around him? Unfortunately, there was no time to find out as a sharp elbow in their ribs shoved them aside and some foolish mortal took their place.

He had to force himself to not react, to not take over their body again and curse them all—apart from his Companion, of course—for drawing the child’s attention away from him. Instead he directed Quirinus to take them out of the pub and check the letter for details. They had a contact to meet and a Stone to acquire. The Potter brat would have to wait.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

Empty. After all he’d gone through, after all his efforts. Finding someone willing to betray the bank, getting them to set up portkeys laced with the proper authorisation to get through the wards, sneaking around to meet the pathetic little traitor and then Obliviating them—which wasn’t as easy in Quirinus’ body as it had been in his own—instead of paying, and it was all for naught. He’d been too late, and that confounding Headmaster had managed to move the Stone. If it had ever been in there, despite all information pointing to it. But no, he’d been able to sense the faint remnants of its presence.

He paced to and fro in the little cabin they owned—Quirinus’ summer home, and quite useful to keep his Companion from finding out things he wasn’t ready to know yet. Quirinus had fled consciousness in the face of Voldemort’s anger, and part of Voldemort wished he could simply snuff the pathetic Ravenclaw out and take permanent possession of his body. But as always when his mind wandered those paths, there was something holding him back. Likewise, something held him back from blasting the cabin into pieces, take his aggression out on everything around him. It wasn’t the same something, though. No, the latter was his more practical side, that part of him that knew that if he did, the Ministry would be swarming all over the place in minutes. The former, though…

The former whispered to him that he’d made a deal, that Quirinus was helping him of his own free will, that it would be _wrong_ to take advantage of that. And that was so far from his normal thoughts that it almost frightened him. He’d never hesitated to take advantage of any situation before. It was a weakness he couldn’t afford, not now, but at the same time he couldn’t force himself to ignore that voice. It was fine, he told himself. It was safer to hide inside Quirinus. As long as Quirinus’ soul still shared this body, it was his magical signature people like that old fool and the Ministry would first notice. It was a mask that was convenient to wear, and he hadn’t at all started to go soft. It also wasn’t the relevant issue right now.

The Stone. Where was it now? When had the Headmaster removed it from the bank? How far behind was he? Could he still catch up? How long would it take? Would Quirinus hold up under the strain? He hadn’t anticipated this to take so long. He’d hoped to be done with it before summer ended, so he could regain a body and leave teaching to Quirinus. But now…

Harry Potter. Before today, his goal had been to regain his body, claim his Companion and slay the brat who dared to not only survive his attack but also destroy his body. Now those plans were in disarray. On the one hand, he had a lot to blame the Potter brat for. But on the other, this was the one whose presence had supported him selflessly for so long. The one who’d kept him anchored and stopped him from drifting completely into insanity. The one who’d offered his own magic without hesitation, just because Voldemort needed it. In view of all that, could he forgive the child for what happened that night?

He sighed. Yes. Yes, he could. And if he was honest with himself, the child had been a mere infant at the time. Admittedly he had more control over his magic than most other children did, but wasn’t that partly due to Voldemort’s tutoring? There was no way he’d have been able to protect himself against the Avada Kedavra while still in his nappies. No, the protection on him had to have come from someone else, and _that_ was who he ought to blame. Not his Companion. He still hated the Potter family for what they’d done, but Harry was innocent.

And that added to the current complications. Not only didn’t he want to leave his Companion on his own at Hogwarts, subject to whatever manipulations the old fool might come up with—if anyone had the right to manipulate the child it was _Voldemort_!—but he still needed to get hold of that blasted Stone. If that wasn’t bad enough, he could already feel the fraying of Quirinus’ mind. It wasn’t immediately noticeable, of course, but it was there, and things would only deteriorate if he didn’t take action soon.

It’d taken them over two months to figure out where the Stone was this time. There was no way Quirinus would hold up for another two months without…

Merlin’s beard, he _hated_ the thought of it, of what it’d do to him—to them both, that weakness whispered—but what choice did he have? But not yet. Not quite yet. He’d hold out a little longer, at least till the end of August. If he hadn’t found the stone before Quirinus was due to start teaching, he’d have to do it.

First things first, he had people to contact. He sighed, sitting down by the desk and grabbing a quill. He hated having to rely on other people, but he simply couldn’t be everywhere at once.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

His Companion held back, drawing as far away from them as possible, and Voldemort scowled at the action. How _dare_ he try to…

 _I’m sorry_ , his Companion said, and the frustration and sadness and regret laced through those word took the wind out of Voldemort’s sails. _I just… I don’t want to give anything away. I saw you in Diagon Alley today, and if you saw me I don’t want to…_

Voldemort didn’t mention that he already knew exactly who the child was, and he sent a discreet command to his Host to keep that knowledge to himself as well. _Shh, mine,_ he said softly. _I’m proud of you._ It did, however, prove a quite annoying complication. Thinking it through for a few seconds, he came to a decision. _Here, look._ Focusing, he erected invisible walls in between the three of them, partitioning their mind into three separate chambers. _For now, I will hold the boundaries, but I will teach you to set aside part of your own mind behind a similar barrier, to protect that which you wish to keep to yourself._

A wave of relief and admiration and greed swept over him, washing through the flimsy walls to reach him. _Thank you,_ his Companion said. _Oh, thank you so much._ No. Not his Companion. His _Harry_. Because Potter or not, he belonged to Voldemort.

Voldemort smiled at him. _You’re quite welcome, mine. Now, pay attention._

And for the next hour or so, he went through the mechanics of raising mental barriers, of hiding what he didn’t want to share. Whether it was because his Harry was a quick study or because being able to actively demonstrate over and over again—though it took energy they didn’t quite have to spend—helped, he didn’t know, but by the end of that time the child was able to take up at least a shared responsibility for the walls between them. He smiled and held his Harry tightly as a reward, pretending he didn’t see any flashes of their meeting earlier that day.

Perhaps he should tell the child that he knew quite well when they’d met, but for now he’d let his Harry believe it was a secret. To be honest, he was curious as to just why his Harry wanted to keep it away from them. Certainly, he’d told the child to not reveal anything, but that had been more intended for when the child was awake. Was there something else there? Some reason why his Harry didn’t want him to know? It was tempting to sneak past those shields and find out, but he also knew that if he was caught… it would damage the trust his Harry held for him. So instead he just held the child.

 _Did you get anything nice?_ he asked. _What about that key you mentioned she’d bring?_ He’d let his Harry give whatever response he deemed non-revealing enough, but he was—surprisingly enough—genuinely curious.

The child was quiet for a little while, as though judging his response carefully, but then he nodded. _I have more money than I thought I would_ , he confessed. _My parents… Well, the vault contained enough to keep me through Hogwarts, probably more than that if I’m prudent. It’s_ my _key now._ There was a faint hint of challenge and triumph at that last bit, as though someone had tried to take his key away, or as though he expected Voldemort to demand it from him.

 _Of course it is,_ Voldemort said simply. _Make sure you keep it safe._

His Harry nodded. _I will. I got myself some new clothes—I’ll never wear_ anything _of my cousin’s again if I can help it—and an owl._ He hesitated. _Um, I know I should probably stay away from you, and I know we meet up like this, but… Um… Would you mind terribly if I wrote you some time?_

It was difficult to control his emotions. Part of him wanted to say yes right away, would look forward to any letters, would treasure them. But he couldn’t very well reveal any of that, could he? Not even to his Host. Besides… Amusement rippled through him, and he grasped at that emotion as one much safer. _And how do you suggest that I’d reply, mine? You may know my Host’s identity, but…_

The child’s cautious enthusiasm died. _Oh. I forgot that part. I just… Never mind._

 _I’m not telling you to never do it, mine,_ Voldemort found himself saying, hating his Harry feeling so dejected and humiliated. _What I am saying is that it isn’t recommended. And I suggest using a public owl—either from an owl post office or from Hogwarts—rather than your own. Less risk of someone tracing it or wondering who you’re writing and why._

A nod was his only response for a little while. Then, _You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think._

He smiled. _No need to apologise, mine. I understand well the excitement of knowing I’m not merely someone existing in your dreams. I feel the same way, though I had my suspicions for quite a while._ Unlike his Harry, Voldemort had had the benefit of knowing it was, at least, theoretically possible. He’d also always been awake when it happened, and had enough experience with both Occlumency and Legilimency to recognise the feel of another mind. That said, there were times during the past decade when he’d doubted his own sanity, wondering if the other was just someone he’d imagined up.

The child did the mental equivalent of tilting his head curiously. _Why didn’t you ever tell me?_

That was a good question, actually, and something Voldemort had on occasion asked himself. _Would you have believed me?_ Besides, telling the child would probably have involved revealing who he really was, and now that he knew the identity of his Harry, he was glad he hadn’t.

Closing his eyes briefly, he firmly shoved any guilt he might harbour over having slain his Harry’s parents behind his mental walls. That was not something he was willing to share at this moment, and certainly not with his Host. In all likelihood he’d never be willing to let anyone know, but now was definitely not the time for it. Besides, he had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, he told himself. They’d been at war, and he’d done what he thought best. Nothing more, nothing less. He certainly didn’t _regret_ it.

 _Probably not_ , his Harry said with a sigh. _I mean, I’d have wanted to believe you. On some level, I always wanted you to be real, to come and take me away from them, but I also knew—or thought I knew—that I was a fool for thinking that you were. And if you told me you were real…_ He hesitated. _I’d probably have felt hurt and betrayed that you_ didn’t _come to save me._

There was a vague sensation of pain in that, but with the walls between them Voldemort couldn’t pinpoint the source of it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that difficult to guess. _And after you found out?_ he asked softly.

His Harry burrowed closer. _Not so much. I mean, things were happening so fast, and I didn’t have much time to think about it. And it’s not like you knew where I lived. I wish I_ could _have told you that._

 _I know, mine._ The child had been very vocal—figuratively—on that account over the years. _And I wish I could have saved you._

There was silence then, for a little while. Then, _You did._ Voldemort twitched in surprise. _You told me what to do, and…_ He hesitated, and when he continued there was that slow deliberation over the words, as though he was carefully calculating what to say and not. _She’s… promised me. That she’ll do her best to find me another place to stay. That I won’t have to go back next summer._

Damn right he wouldn’t! Voldemort would kill them before he allowed that to happen. Perhaps, if things looked down, he’d be able to get his Harry to tell him the address in a letter, and he’d go there and make sure they could never hurt his Harry—or anyone else, for that matter, but that wasn’t as important—ever again. _I’m glad,_ was all he said. _Promise you’ll tell me if it looks like she’s not following through, mine._

A small nod. _I will. I promise._

_Good._

And for a long time, that was it. They sat in companionable silence, just taking comfort in the other’s presence. It was… more awkward than usual, he had to admit. While he’d always held back part of himself behind Occlumency walls, he wasn’t used to them hiding part of his Harry. They enforced a distance he didn’t like, and it was tempting to come out and just _tell_ him he already knew. But no. Until he knew just why his Harry was holding back, he’d just have to suffer through this. So he sat there, holding his Harry and hiding his discontent as well as he could.

_Thank you._

Voldemort blinked. _For what?_

His Harry sighed. _For not pushing. For not being angry with me. For helping me. With the barrier thing, I mean. Not that I’m not grateful for all the other help you’ve given me._ He could feel the child trembling, and he didn’t like it one bit. _I was told… I mean… If you hadn’t helped me, all these years, I’m–_

The child cut himself off abruptly, and Voldemort couldn’t help but wonder why. _You’re…?_ he prompted.

_I’m sorry. I don’t… I shouldn’t talk about that, I think._

Oh, he didn’t like the sound of that. But before he had time to say anything, he could feel his Harry shrinking back from him, clearly taking note of his feelings.

 _I’m sorry,_ his Harry repeated.

Voldemort sighed and pushed his annoyance back. _Don’t be. But… know that you can tell me anything you want. You’re mine, and that’s not going to change._ He stroked his Harry’s presence gently. _Will it reveal your identity to talk about it?_ Was that why he felt he shouldn’t?

Brief hesitation, and then, _No. It’s just… Oh, bugger it. Fine. It’s not as though I’d mind even if–_ He relaxed against Voldemort, just a tiny bit. _I found out about Obscuruses._

 _Obscuri_ , Voldemort corrected absently even as he tried to figure out where his Harry was going with this.

_Yes, Obscuri. And… if I hadn’t met you, if I hadn’t had you to look forward to, if you hadn’t helped me believe in myself… That would probably have happened._

Voldemort’s first reaction was denial. No. No, that couldn’t be right. Surely not. But before he could formulate a single thing, the child went on.

 _I’m… I’m not entirely sure it didn’t_ , he confessed. _From the description… I mean, a non-corporeal entity separate from myself but with some sort of connection, who can absorb magic from me…_ A sense of embarrassment, while Voldemort was reeling over how his Harry could have added two and two and ended up with fifteen. _I swear, it didn’t sound nearly as far-fetched when I first thought of it._

 _I…_ Voldemort trailed off, baffled, but then gathered his wits about him again. _I think can see how you came up with that idea, but I promise that it’s not the case._

_Oh. Well, I was fairly sure it wasn’t, but even if it had been, I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t have minded. You’ve never tried to hurt me, and you’ve never lied to me. I mean, I know there’s a lot of things you’re not telling me, probably even more than I think there are, but I do trust that you’ve been as honest as you’ve been able to. And that’s more than I can say for most everyone else in my life._

Voldemort wasn’t about to feel guilty over keeping things from his Harry, or about lying to him. In all fairness, he did try not to, if only because it could easily be confusing to try to remember what he’d said. So most of his lies were by omission and by not denying assumptions. _Thank you, mine_ , he said gently. He only hoped he’d receive the same acceptance when he did reveal who he was.

They didn’t say much more for the remainder of the night. What his Harry was thinking, Voldemort didn’t know—which was highly annoying—but he was busy trying to figure out what the best course of action would be. Was it better to hold back the information until he had a body of his own, or should he tell his Harry as soon as possible, before they had time to spoon-feed him all that Light-focused propaganda? Before they could turn his Harry away from him. He didn’t know, and it was with some reluctance he let the child’s mind slip away from him and into proper sleep. He’d have to think about it and consider the consequences carefully.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

 _I’m sorry, my lord, but no._ Quirinus was firmer than he’d ever been before, and Voldemort gnashed his imaginary teeth with frustration, knowing the little Ravenclaw was serious. _Would it even have the effect you’re after if I was the one to drink it? What if it ended up ejecting you completely instead?_

There was a slightly pleading note to it at the end, a silent plea for compassion or leniency. Reluctantly, Voldemort had to admit that Quirinus had a point. The research they’d done so far… There was that risk. They needed to strengthen the both of them, not just Quirinus. _Very well_ , he allowed, feeling Quirinus slump with relief. _We have a few more days until we need to decide. We’ll try to figure out a way to keep you from needing to drink._

_Thank you, my lord._

They’d spent most of the time either secreted in their quarters or away from Hogwarts. With his Harry staying at the school, it was better if they didn’t risk meeting each other again. It was safer that way; fewer chances for something to slip. Once the term started up, there’d be no escaping it, of course, but the longer they could prevent it, the better.

It was frustrating, to say the least, that they’d made so very little headway on finding the Stone again. At best, Voldemort had been able to deduce that it was somewhere at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t be sure of that and he wouldn’t even be able to search the castle for it. Not with the school empty and the Headmaster with too much time on his hands. His ventures would be discovered right away, and while he hated to admit it he still wasn’t strong enough to stand up to the old fool.

Shaking his head, he directed Quirinus on which book to take down and open. He doubted it would hold any ideas, but _not_ doing any research would yield even less. He sorely wished they could manage to sneak down to the Chamber and seek out the books left there, but again there was the issue of a Headmaster with too much time on his hands and not enough distractions. When the school was filled with children, the tiny burst of magic it took to open the entrance would vanish in the background noise, but now? No.

_My lord!_

He blinked, realising he’d been lost in thought for a few pages now, and looked out through his Host’s eyes. His breath, such as it was, caught. _Go back a page_ , he ordered, needing the context. Quirinus obeyed without comment or hesitation, and Voldemort trembled with excitement as he read it all. Yes. Yes, this might work. It was allegedly theoretical—he doubted that, but allowed that the author might not have had the skill or strength to successfully complete it—but it had potential. The ritual in itself wasn’t of any use to him, but the idea of grafting someone else’s arm onto a body and have it still controlled by the original owner… Yes, it definitely had potential. He’d need to modify the anchor point, and adjust the potency, of course, and there was nothing left of his old body he could use, but he was confident he could make it work. The only problem was the issue of how much power it would take.

 _Move aside_ , he said, flowing forward to take control. He didn’t have time for the delay in needing to instruct his Host on what to do. Quirinus obliged and made way, retreating to the back of their head as Voldemort grabbed quill and parchment and proceeded to take notes and draw up calculations and diagrams. _Don’t talk to me right now; I need to concentrate_ , he cut Quirinus off, sensing the many questions bubbling to the surface in the man’s mind. He barely took notice of the mumbled acquiescence, all his attention on his work once more.

 _Change these runes, adjust the alignment, move that sigil half an inch and strengthen it with…_ He worked quickly but carefully, double-checking every measurement and calculation. _It’ll need to create a secondary digestive sack I can draw energy from, and to do that…_ It had been more than a decade since he’d had the opportunity to do this, and while his skills were rusty it sparked a certain joy in him to create something new, to succeed in something others had failed at. That it would also help him achieve his goals didn’t exactly lessen his enjoyment of it, either.

The sun had long since set by the time he looked up from his work. He straightened his aching back and mentally turned to Quirinus to boast, only to find that the man had at some point slipped off into sleep. He grumbled, shooting him a mental glare, but sighed. There was little he could do about that if he didn’t want their shared mindscape to deteriorate further. Shaking his head, he dismissed the urge to gloat and instead set down to check his work one more time.

It would be… risky, to say the least. With the amount of magic necessary to do this, there was no possible way he could try it out on someone else first. Not to mention he’d need to find someone else hosting two souls, which wasn’t exactly common. But even so, it would use up all of his and Quirinus’ reserves, and that could in itself prove dangerous—beyond the very small risk that it wouldn’t work.

The arrival of his Companion provided him with both a distraction and a solution. Of course! Smiling to himself, he closed the tome and set his notes aside. _Welcome, mine_ , he said.

He could feel his Harry take in the state of their minds. _Your Host is sleeping?_ Half a heartbeat passed. _And… has something good happened?_

Still smiling, Voldemort retreated to the bedroom and lay down before retreating from the forefront and embracing his Harry fully. _Possibly_ , he said. _As you might understand, a mind isn’t built to contain two souls, but I may have found a means by which I can ease the strain on my Host’s mindscape in the… medium term._ It wouldn’t work for too long—nor would he want it to, considering the side-effects—but it would hold them until they could get their hands on the Stone and create the Elixir he needed.

_That’s brilliant! Oh, I’m so glad._

He was. Voldemort could tell that. _However_ , he said slowly, and felt his Harry’s attention focus on him, _it’s not without its dangers. It must be done soon, but… it requires a lot of power, and I fear I may not have enough, even with my Host’s contribution. And using too much may do more harm than good. Using too little may mean it won’t work at all, and I’ll have spent all that magic for nothing._

There was a hint of annoyance amid the child’s worry. _I’ve told you: use mine_ , he very predictably said.

Voldemort hid his pleased smile, and instead presented an equally worried front which, on reflection, wasn’t entirely a deception. _I don’t want to make you ill again_ , he said, but frankly he was more worried they’d investigate his illness and realise its cause.

The sudden spike of alarm told him something similar must have occurred to his Harry—oh, how he loathed that wall of privacy that prevented him from reading all the nuances to the child’s thoughts and emotions—but he pretended not to have noticed it. _Oh. Well, yes, I…_ He could almost picture the child licking his lower lip hesitantly. _I can’t say I enjoyed it._ Restraining himself from piercing through the thin veil separating their thoughts, he waited as his Harry clearly deliberated something. _But it only lasted a day or two. I’d recover before school starts. And… and maybe you could try not to take quite as much? I mean, it’s not that I wouldn’t give all of it to you if you needed it, but… I don’t want to miss the train._

The lies were obvious and jarring, but again he pretended not to notice. In a way, he was glad it was so difficult for his Harry to lie to him. It made him feel special, as the child clearly had very little trouble lying to those abominable Muggles or others around him. He hid a smirk at the thought of the Headmaster’s reaction once his Harry was Sorted into Slytherin. _I would, of course, do my best._ He pondered it. If he drew less than he had last time—back then he’d been desperate and not nearly as discriminating as he ought to have been—the child would be less fatigued by it. And if he… Yes. _Here’s what we’ll do. Are you able to get away and find a post owl other than your own?_ He already knew the answer to that, of course, but couldn’t really say so without revealing truths he wasn’t sure he was ready to reveal.

His Harry hesitated for only a few moments before nodding. _I think so, yes._

 _Good. Then send me a note tomorrow. I’ll send it back with an Invigoration Draught, and–_ He cut himself off at the fresh spike of alarm. _Is something wrong, mine?_

_What if they see? What if they don’t let me have it? What if they ask me where it’s from? Or who’d send me anything, let alone by owl?_

Oh, clever child. That was a much better obfuscation, and had he not known better he’d have thought it really was those Muggles that his Harry was worried about. _I will instruct the owl to deliver the letter when you’re on your own._ He took a moment to consider the best course of action. _Make sure that’s possible at some point before noon_ , he said then. _I will also send a small phial of a weak sleeping potion. I’ll attempt to draw from you while you’re awake shortly after lunch… say one o’clock._ While he knew when lunch was served at Hogwarts, he went along with the illusion that the child was still with his relatives. _If you haven’t felt it before half one, go somewhere private and take the sleeping potion._ Again, he took a moment, even as his Harry took in the instructions and nodded his acceptance of them. _If that doesn’t work_ , Voldemort said then, quietly but seriously, _we are going to have to meet up in person._ This time the alarm was mixed with something akin to longing or desire, but the rejection still hurt. He hardened his heart, reminded himself it wasn’t that the child didn’t _want_ to see him, but it still hurt. _I wouldn’t ask it of you were it not important, mine._

His Harry slumped against him then, a steady stream of wordless apology exuding from the small shape. _I know. I’m sorry. I understand_ , was the gist of it, and it did a lot to soothe the ache from Voldemort’s heart. Then the child hesitated, the apology stuttering to a halt. _But… how will you find me?_

 _The potion shouldn’t last much longer than an hour_ , Voldemort said, making a mental note to make that specification when he purchased the potion. _If you wake up and nothing has happened, you must send me another owl with your location. I will be there as soon as I get it._

There was a hint of reluctance in his Harry’s acknowledgement, but no protest. _Alright, I’ll do that._ The child took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. _And if it does work?_

 _If the first attempt works, you should feel it gradually; take half the Invigoration Draught when you notice, the other half when you think I’m done. It should keep you on your feet long enough to fool them._ Like his Harry had done earlier, he made no specification as to which ‘them’ he meant. _In that case, you can take the other potion to help you fall asleep faster in the evening, if you wish. Sleep will help you recover faster._

A nod. _I understand._

Did he, now? Well, no one—apart from those Muggles, and they didn’t count—could ever say that his Harry wasn’t clever. _Good._

_I’m so glad you’ve found a solution. You should have told me earlier that you needed one._

Should he have? Admitted a weakness, just like that? He pulled back a little, uncertain of just why part of him wanted to agree with the child.

 _I’m sorry_ , his Harry immediately said, a hint of panic in his words. _I didn’t mean it like that._

He shook his head mildly. _I’m not angry_ , he said, quite honestly. _But why? Why should I have said something?_

The child relaxed a little, relief all too clear in his shape and texture. _Because I would have… I could have…_ A small sigh. _I don’t like not knowing things that may affect me._

Possible responses ran through Voldemort’s private mind, and then he wrapped himself around his Harry again. _I didn’t want you to worry. If you’d known, wouldn’t you have worried?_

 _I would have_ , the child admitted. _But… I’d still have liked to know. Not telling me something like that, it makes me feel as though you don’t trust me._

Huh. Did it? _I didn’t realise that._ With his Host asleep, he could admit his lack of insight without feeling weaker for it, at least not much weaker. _But there was nothing you could have done about it._

 _I know. I know I couldn’t have. I know it doesn’t make sense._ There was a brief pause. _Does it have to make sense?_

He had to think that through, but then he sighed. _No, I suppose it doesn’t have to. I will try to keep it in mind, and remember to keep you a bit more informed in the future. I do trust you._

_Thank you._

_And you?_ Voldemort asked, feeling he ought to do his part in keeping up the pretence between them. _Are they still treating you well?_ It was almost amusing, watching his Harry contort his mind into believable lies in his attempts to keep him from realising the child was already at Hogwarts.

 _They are_ , his Harry admitted. _I don’t really want to talk about it, though._ Of course he didn’t; Voldemort knew all too well that his Harry didn’t like lying. Not to him. _Would you… Would you just hold me, instead?_

Agreeing to the request, Voldemort moved in close again and wrapped himself around the child. Holding his Harry like this wasn’t such a hardship, he had to admit. Despite the shields keeping them slightly apart, it could even be considered… nice. Not that he’d admit that openly, of course, even if it was perfectly reasonable. The child was _his_ , just as other objects had been his in the past, and…

Huh. Maybe that was it? Maybe that was actually the answer to the question of _why_ this connection existed between them. Just like he’d taken trophies already from his minor battles with the other children at the orphanage, he’d somehow subconsciously claimed _Harry_ as his trophy from that night, and he’d never willingly let go of his trophies before. It was the first concrete idea he’d had on the matter, and it would bear to keep in mind. He’d look it up more carefully later; for now, he’d just focus on holding his Harry and keep him safe and content. Keep him dependent and owned and trusting. Yes, that was what he had to do. He would not allow his Harry to leave him. He couldn’t.


	10. End of Summer

_…in which Harry worries about the ethics of magic, frightens Hagrid nearly out of his wits, and argues culpability with a house-elf._

 

The weeks at Hogwarts had gone faster than Harry had ever experienced before, but then again he’d also never been as happy. Maybe there was something to that saying about time flying by when you’re having fun, after all. He’d explored the castle, met a few of the ghosts—and hadn’t _that_ been an experience?—and found a good name for his owl: Hedwig. He’d wanted to name her Athena, as a secret homage to McGonagall, but his owl hadn’t seemed to like that name at all. He’d also read through the potions book—remembering Snape’s advice—skimmed his other text books, and practiced writing with a quill until his handwriting was at least legible. Mipsy had caught him working on sewing the required name tags to his clothes and had been highly upset until he promised to let her do it for him. She’d also found him an old analogue watch somewhere to help him keep track of time—while Hogwarts did have a clock tower, that didn’t help him much if he couldn’t look at it, did it? In a way, the gift—as she had assured him that it had been lost and forgotten so long ago that no one would be wanting it back—was as precious as the trunk McGonagall had bought for him. It was old and worn, yes, but unlike every other second-hand thing he’d had it had never belonged to Dudley. He loved it.

The only thing he could say he regretted was that he hadn’t been able to be himself with the Being. He’d done his best to hold back, at first, but they’d seen through him in moments. Fortunately, however, they had respected his privacy just as much as he’d respected theirs earlier, and all he needed to do was to tell them that he _had_ seen them in Diagon Alley and that he didn’t want to give away any details so as to not influence their behaviour. After that, the Being had helped to put up thin walls between them, even taught him how to do it himself. It wasn’t pleasant and it wasn’t fun, but it did ensure that they only shared the things they intended to share.

He also hadn’t seen the Host even once in the past four weeks, which on the one hand helped keep who he was secret, but on the other hand it had made him even more inclined to hope it _wouldn’t_ work to borrow his magic without meeting up. Part of him hoped that would be the outcome, because at least then he’d be able to stop hiding, stop lying. He’d be forced to come clean.

Of course, he sighed as he trudged up to the Owlery with a mostly empty letter in his back pocket, he hadn’t actually _told_ the Being that. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to admit to his weakness. What if the Being called him out on it? What if it/he mocked him? Not that he’d ever known that to happen before, not from the Being, but the worry was still there. And he really couldn’t bear the thought of losing the Being’s esteem.

He also hadn’t mentioned to Hedwig that he’d use another owl. Part of him wished he’d picked a more… discreet owl, especially once he reached the Owlery and realised that most of them were in various brown and grey coats—was it called coats when it came to feathers? Hedwig, with her mostly white feathers, would probably stand out a lot. Not exactly an owl he could use if he wanted to conceal that he was the sender. He really should have given that some thought before he bought her, but… how could he _not_ fall for her elegant beauty?

Pausing, he looked up and around at the many owls that inhabited the top of the tower. How was he supposed to do this?

“Umm,” he began hesitantly. It did seem as though Hedwig understood him when he talked to her, so maybe these owls did too? “I have a letter that needs delivering. Any of you willing to help me out?”

There was an almost silent whisper of sound across the Owlery as owls shifted on their perches and looked at each other. A few soft hoots and coos. He tried to wait patiently, but he wasn’t sure it was going to work, and heat rose in his cheeks as he worried over just how big a fool he looked now, talking to birds and expecting them to understand and answer him. At least there was no one except for the owls present to witness it.

A soft flutter, and one owl flew down to settle on an empty perch near him. It looked at him almost imperiously and held out one leg. Still hesitant to believe it had actually worked, Harry approached it and fastened his letter to the leg.

“Take this to Quirinus Quirrell,” he said softly, just in case someone was nearby to hear it. “Don’t give it to anyone else and wait with him for a response, alright?”

The owl ducked its head and stretched out its wings, and Harry ducked as it took flight, sailing out the nearest window. Harry looked after it for a long time, though the angle made it impossible to see the owl once it was more than a few feet away. There was a surge of almost hyperactive energy inside him, and he wanted to run around, jump and scream, and at the same time he didn’t want to break the spell that kept his attention on that window. Finally, the muscles in his arms and hands twitching and trembling, he turned away and headed down the stairs, leaping down the last five steps just because he could.

Heading down toward the lake, he did his best to alleviate the nervous energy by winding his path past every obstacle he could find, climbing or jumping past them. He’d had a similar upsurge when writing the note—even if it only said ‘yours’—but he’d thought he was over it by the time he got to the Owlery. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or anxious. On the one hand, he’d be able to be _useful_ , but on the other hand there was nothing he could do now but wait. He’d never hated waiting this much before.

Hm, maybe he should take a detour back past his room and pick up some books. No one would think it odd if he said he wanted to just relax somewhere and read, would they? And it’d give him something to do while he waited for the Being’s response.

Turning his steps back up to the castle, he did just that, and fifteen minutes later he was heading down once more, four books barely making a dent in the space inside his book bag. It really was a clever piece of magic, that. Whoever had come up with the idea to make magical Tardises—sans the time-travelling aspect, of course—was a genius. Not only did his bag have room for more books than its appearance suggested, but they barely weighed anything, either. They weren’t completely weightless—he definitely noticed a difference from when it was empty—but based on the weight he’d have guessed there was just one book inside.

He bypassed the rock he’d found that first day and instead followed the edge of the lake. How much of it was inside Hogwarts grounds? He knew there was a fence of sorts around the school grounds, with gates in the direction of Hogsmeade—a wizarding village just a short bit out, where the train station was—but would he come across that if he tried to go around the lake? If he did, if only part of the lake was on school property, didn’t that make it quite a security breach? Of course, a simple fence didn’t provide much security in itself, but it at least provided a boundary. How did that work across the water?

He didn’t try to go all around the lake. At one point he probably would, but there was no need to do so today, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer to his question just yet. After a few minutes’ walk, he found a… he wasn’t sure whether it counted as a small tree or large bush, but it would give him enough shade from the sun—and also enough coverage that he wasn’t directly visible from the castle. Setting down his bag, he pulled out one of the books and settled down to read.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

He wasn’t sure just how long he’d been reading—though a quick glance to his watch once he remembered he had one showed that it was just after eleven—when a soft flutter reached him and the whole tree-or-bush shuddered under the weight of an owl. Sitting up, he smiled at the owl and untied the small package from its leg.

“Thank you,” he said, petting it gently. It seemed to tolerate his touch for a few moments, before it took off once more, as far as Harry could tell heading straight for the Owlery.

Smiling after it, he then sat down with his package and tried to ignore just how much his fingers were trembling as he untied the string around it. The two small bottles—fortunately labelled, he noticed—clinked together as he unwrapped them, and a note slipped away and almost flew off on before he could catch it. And then he smiled, clutching it to his chest. Just like his own, it only contained one word. ‘Yes.’

Still smiling, he slipped the bottles into his bag and stuck the note in his book as a bookmark. Then he packed himself up to head back into the castle. It wouldn’t do to be late to lunch. Not only would he worry McGonagall, but it would also cut down the time he had to eat before the Being tried to siphon magic off of him, and he’d prefer to be back here by then. In case it worked.

“Hello, Harry,” Hagrid called out to him as he passed—at a distance—the groundskeeper’s home.

“Hi, Hagrid,” he yelled back, waving and grinning as though it was just an ordinary day. Had it been one, he might have headed over or asked if he could come over after lunch—he still hadn’t taken the big man up on his offer to talk about Harry’s parents, not wanting to push too fast—but he couldn’t. Not with what was coming. Maybe later, depending on how hard it hit him. “Coming to lunch?” It felt ridiculous to be shouting like this, but on the other hand it wasn’t like they were bothering anyone, was it?

“Reckon I might,” Hagrid replied, and while Harry couldn’t see his smile he could hear it. The man stood up, then turned around and bent over. “No, Fang. Stay,” he began, even as Harry picked up his feet again. Hagrid would catch up to him before he’d reached the door, he was sure.

A minute later, Hagrid proved him right, his shadow falling over Harry as he caught up and slowed his step to match Harry’s. “You alright, Harry?”

He looked up and smiled. “I’m fine. Been wandering about a bit, and then found a nice spot to sit and read in. It’s nice to be able to be outside and just relax, you know?” He’d never been able to do that, before. He’d always been either working or trying to hide from Dudley.

“That it is,” Hagrid agreed, though Harry doubted he’d caught on to the true meaning behind Harry’s words. “It’s one reason why I like working here.”

Harry’s good mood faded a little as they ran into Dumbledore in the Entrance Hall, but he made himself smile and nod at the old man. “How do you do, Headmaster,” he said politely.

“Ah, Mr Potter, and Hagrid,” Dumbledore responded with a smile that was probably intended to seem benevolent or friendly but just made Harry want to run away. It wasn’t that Dumbledore had _done_ anything to him—well, apart from the whole neglect thing—but knowing he had to be careful around the Headmaster didn’t exactly make Harry inclined to trust him. “Lovely weather we have, isn’t it?”

And he was still avoiding the issue of the Dursleys, wasn’t he? “Very,” he said, doing his best to sound relaxed and happy. “Been outside all day, mostly reading.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Just make sure you stay safe. Avoid the Forbidden Forest and stay well within the borders of the grounds.”

Harry wanted to tell Dumbledore just where to shove his advice, but instead he nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Don’t you worry, Professor,” Hagrid said cheerfully. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Bugger. Did that mean Hagrid would stalk him? Refusing to let his worry and irritation over that show, he smiled up at the man who towered over them both. “Thanks, Hagrid,” he said.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, thank you. It does make me worry a bit less.” If Dumbledore had worried even one day over him, he’d be surprised, considering how he’d been content to leave Harry with the Dursleys without a second thought. “I assume you’re both here for lunch, however, and not to talk to me,” he went on with a smile that Harry uncharitably thought looked senile or ignorant rather than benign. “I shan’t keep you.”

 _Are you alright, Harry?_ Harry thought as they entered the Great Hall and headed for the table. _I’m sorry I never made sure you weren’t mistreated. I’ll do better in the future._ How could it be so bloody difficult to show an ounce of concern?

To cover his exceedingly foul mood, he glanced several times at Snape, as though it was the sight of the Potions Professor that made him grumpy. The dour man wasn’t eating lunch in the Great Hall often—McGonagall had mentioned that his brewing often made it impossible to step away long enough to eat with the rest of them, and that he those times took his meals in private—but today he was here.

The Being, or Professor Quirrell, wasn’t, but while Harry missed seeing him it was also a relief. Keeping his identity secret was, after all, a lot easier if they didn’t meet face to face all too often. Not when he couldn’t hide in the anonymity that a bunch of other students would provide.

“Hello, Harry,” McGonagall said with a nod. While she didn’t smile at him, her voice was warm and friendly. “Had a good time?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said as he sat down next to her as usual, shoving his annoyance with the Headmaster to the back of his head. “I’ve been reading a little of the _Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ , and it looks really interesting so far. But I’m curious… it mentions transfiguring animals into objects. Is that really done?” She nodded, but before she could start in on the evolution of transfiguration, or whatever one might call it, Harry went on, “But isn’t that cruel to the animals? What if something goes wrong? What if it hurts them?”

She did smile, now. A small but almost proud smile. “You’re not the first to worry about that, Harry,” she said. “I promise that no animals come to harm during Transfiguration classes. Any subjects we use are conjured for that specific purpose and banished after class.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Harry said, though he wasn’t entirely sure he was relieved. Did being conjured mean any magical mishaps didn’t hurt, or that you weren’t scared by being stuck in the middle of a group of children? Still, he didn’t want to get into an argument about it and potentially end up sent to his room or kept under careful watch. No, he’d see if he could find out on his own first. “There’s really a lot in that book, Professor. Will we go through all of it?”

“Of course, Harry,” she responded, “though not in one year. You’ll use the same book next year as well.”

He would? That was something he hadn’t considered before. That would help to reduce the cost of books, he supposed. “That makes sense, I guess. Thank you.”

There was a brief twitch in her jaw, and her eyebrows drew down in either annoyance or disappointment—Harry wasn’t quite sure which, as he hadn’t yet learned to read her body language as well as he had that of the Dursleys. Her lips pressed together, and then she nodded. “You’re welcome, Harry. I don’t mind you asking questions at all.”

There was a snort from Snape that Harry thought sounded almost amused, but McGonagall shot a glare in his direction, clearly not appreciating it. Had Snape been as approachable as she was, Harry might have been tempted to jokingly reassure the man that he’d make sure to direct any and all questions about Potions his way, but with how decidedly antagonistic he’d been, it was probably best not to. So he turned his attention to the food that had appeared and served himself.

It was still strange to take such liberties and not get reprimanded for it, and the freedom was at the same time both wonderful and terrifying. There was a part of him that kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the Professors to turn on him and follow the pattern he was used to. Surely it wasn’t possible for people to be this nice, was it? Apart from Snape—who was acting, he reminded himself—and Dumbledore—who still hadn’t admitted to any wrongdoing in his guardianship of Harry—they all seemed so happy and cheerful. Oh, and there was Filch, of course. He wasn’t happy or cheerful at all that Harry was staying here, and he’d said so quite firmly when Harry had run into him one afternoon. There was no reason, he’d said, for annoying, dirty troublemakers to invade Hogwarts during summers as well. Harry, in turn, had bit back the automatic apologies that wanted to bubble up and had just stood there in silence until Filch grew tired of berating him for existing and left. After that, Harry had done his best to avoid running into either the caretaker himself or his dratted cat.

No, Filch—and to some extent Snape—did a good job of showing that the world still worked the way he was used to. Was it any wonder Harry worried over when the others would stop pretending? Worried that the pretence Snape had been doing had been when he said he’d need to pretend? But even so, it wouldn’t stop Harry from learning as much as he could. He’d take advantage of the allowances they made for him, and survive when they no longer made them.

There was no longer a nutritional potion to take at lunch. Healer Aldaine had, as she’d promised, come by at the end of that first week to check up on him, but she’d prescribed him a longer regimen of potions, if not quite as strong and only twice a day. So now he took them at breakfast and supper. He had to admit that they did seem to have some sort of effect on him. Either that, or the regular access to food. He no longer suffered from dizzy spells at inopportune times, and his ribs were no longer quite as visible. He’d even, Aldaine had told him, catch up a bit on the height curve and maybe even reach a normal height for his age—something that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been put on the potions after the onset of puberty—and he was under strict orders to inform Madam Pomfrey or McGonagall—and through her Aldaine—if he started experiencing aches or pains. Apparently growing fast could do that. Either way, the lack of a potion right now meant that Harry could slip off his chair the moment he felt full.

“Going already?” McGonagall commented, and Harry sensed the question she wasn’t asking outright but probably wanted the answer to anyway.

He nodded. “Heading back out to read some more.” Flashing a brief grin at her, he added, “Need to take advantage of the peace and quiet before all hell breaks loose a few days from now, don’t I?” And before she had time to respond to that, he hefted his bag once more and left. Behind him, he heard Flitwick chuckle.

“I wonder, Minerva, are you certain you’ll keep him? I can see him fit in quite well with my ravens.”

“I think,” McGonagall responded so quietly Harry had to strain his ears to hear her, and he surreptitiously slowed his step. “I think that Harry would do well in almost any House. It’s not so much a matter of where he’ll fit, but where he’ll be happiest.”

Harry knew where he’d be happiest, but that wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t be an option until he graduated, except for maybe during the summers. So he pretended not to have heard their conversation as he left the Great Hall. He was curious, however. What had she meant about him doing well in _almost_ any House? While her emphasis hadn’t been on that word, it did make him wonder which House she thought he wouldn’t do well in. Flitwick seemed to think he’d have a place in Ravenclaw. Snape had mentioned he had Slytherin traits. And McGonagall had never hid her hopes that he’d end up in Gryffindor. The only one who hadn’t commented was the Hufflepuff Head of House, but then again he hadn’t really had any long discussions with Professor Sprout. Nor was he all that keen on it, to be honest. He’d had enough of being hard-working and never getting a single thank-you for it. He didn’t want to go through another seven years of that, thank you very much.

As he slipped out into the warm sunlight, he pushed thoughts of Houses aside. It wasn’t important right now. What _was_ important was that in just a short while, he’d be able to help the Being.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

A little more than an hour later, sitting under the same bush or tree or whatever it was that he’d been reading under earlier, he anxiously glanced at his watch every thirty seconds or so. Twenty-five past one, and still nothing. Bugger. Five more minutes. Except if it wasn’t working—which felt rather obvious at this point—wouldn’t it be better to save those five minutes by taking the potion already? Chewing his lower lip lightly, he pulled the two phials from his bag and considered them.

No. He couldn’t wait. Maybe it would work at the last minute, but it was clearly more difficult than it had been last time, and if they were already short of magic, energy, strength, whatever one wanted to call it, surely spending more energy to reach Harry wasn’t the best option? He pulled the bag closer, slid the Invigoration Draught back inside and uncorked the sleeping potion.

“Well,” he whispered to himself. “Here goes.” And he drained the small bottle, gagging just slightly over the taste. Putting the stopper back in, he put it back into the bag and stifled a yawn. “Wow,” he sighed, letting himself relax as he stretched out on the ground. “That worked really…”

 _…Quickly_ , he finished, then blinked up at the Being and the Host. _Uhh, hi._

Amusement bubbled around the Being. _You’re early, mine._ Then, before Mine had time to apologise, he went on, _But in this case, it’s just as well you are. Come._

Mine went forward and leaned against the Being. _I wasn’t sure whether to wait or not, but I reasoned that it would probably take less energy to reach me this way, and if you’re in need of more already, waiting and letting you pointlessly spend more was probably not the best idea._ He sighed happily, wishing he could stay there forever.

 _I do too,_ the Being whispered in his ear, in that way that suggested the Host couldn’t hear it. _But you can’t._

Mine nodded. _I know. Take what you need from me. You know I’m yours._

The Being nodded. _Yes, you are, and you always will be._ And he reached up and put a part of himself against what felt like Mine’s chest, and Mine sucked in his breath as he felt that light tugging sensation deep inside him, quickly followed by that sapping weakness. It wasn’t as bad as last time, but he honestly didn’t know if that was because the Being was more careful this time or because Mine was stronger. He’d had more to eat, these past few weeks, and those… he shouldn’t be thinking of this, not while the Being was so close, not when there was no way for Mine to uphold the barriers between them and oh shit, he was going to find out and–

 _Shh, mine_ , the Being soothed. _The shields are weaker, yes, but they’re holding._ A brief surge of amusement. _My Host is assisting you in upholding them._

Oh. _That’s good_ , he sighed, sagging against the Being in relief. Then he whimpered as the Being backed away. _No_ , he managed.

_I think that’s quite enough._

Part of Mine wanted to cry, part wanted to scream. It wasn’t enough, because he still had strength left to give, and if this was how he could be useful, then why wasn’t the Being taking more? And when had Mine switched to thinking of the Being as purely masculine instead of still potentially or partly agender? _No, please_ , he begged, lacking any sense of pride to keep him from doing so. Not with the Being. _Take it. There’s more, I know there is. I don’t need it._

 _Quiet_ , the Being snapped, and Mine jerked as though he’d been struck. He’d ruined things now, hadn’t he? Should have known better, really. He tried to gather his wits about him and curled up away from the Being. _Shh_ , the Being soothed, reaching out and stroking him gently. _I’m not angry with you, mine. But you must realise how tempting it would be to take more, and you do need it. If I take any more, you’ll be too ill to catch the Express, and that simply isn’t acceptable._

Mine nodded, focusing on bringing up his shields again and hiding behind them. _Yes, sir_ , he said softly. _I’m sorry._ He’d do better. He wouldn’t push for more than the Being was willing to give him. Anything was better than nothing, and nothing was what he’d have left if he made the Being leave him.

He realised too late that his shields weren’t as good as he thought they were, because he suddenly found himself in a tight grip, the Being’s presence sharp and intense right in front of him. _Did I not just say you would always be mine?_ he asked, and Mine gasped as he recalled that yes, that was what had been said.

_You did._

_Then why would you think I’d let you go?_

Mine sighed and hung his head. He wasn’t sure what to say. How could he explain—in a way that didn’t insult the Being—how he didn’t always believe he was good enough? That part of him was still waiting for everything to turn upside down again… or perhaps turn right side up, considering it was what he was used to from his relatives.

 _What’s wrong?_ the Being asked, a worried tint to his voice. Mine shook his head, unable to find the right words, and the Being sighed. _It’s been a while since you were like this, my sweet child. I’d hoped you were past those worries already. Is it because you were sent back to your relatives?_

Guilt flooded Mine, and he almost recoiled away from the Being. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even remember, right now, why he couldn’t let the Being know, but he hated lying and he hated the whole situation, and all he wanted was to spill the truth out between them. Surely, if the Being said Mine would always belong to him, there was nothing wrong with letting him know? _I want to tell you_ , he whispered.

 _I know_ , the Being responded, and for a moment Mine thought he was saying he already knew what Mine wanted to tell him. _I know you do_ , he went on, and Mine realised just how silly that idea was. Of course he didn’t. Mine hadn’t told him, and he’d been taught to keep those barriers between them.

 _Why aren’t I?_ He honestly couldn’t remember his reasoning.

The Being was quiet for a long while. So long, in fact, that Mine was starting to think he wouldn’t answer at all. _I will make it easy for you_ , he said then. _For now, I forbid you to tell me. You’re not thinking clearly right now, and I’m not sure just why. So I will set you a task. Will you obey me in this?_

Mine’s heart ached, and he nodded. He’d prove to the Being that he wasn’t useless, that he could be relied on, that he could be useful. _Anything_ , he promised. As long as it meant the Being wasn’t angry with him.

 _I will not allow you to be with me until you have arrived at Hogwarts and been Sorted_ , the Being said, and Mine’s heart shattered. _This is not because I’m displeased with you or angry_ , he continued, but it didn’t really help much. _It’s because I want you to be able to think things through and decide what you want to tell me and not, and why, without my presence distracting you._ The explanation made things a little better, but he was still aching with the knowledge that the Being didn’t want him around. _Do you understand?_

Mine nodded. _Yes, sir._

 _Good. Now, you’re going to wake up soon. I want you to take the Invigoration Draught and go get yourself some rest. When you feel well enough, I want you to start thinking about why you feel this way, why you think I’m going to abandon you. I want you to write it down, reason your way through it. I won’t ask to read what you’ve written; that’s for your eyes only. But I need you to think and not just feel and react. Alright?_ Mine nodded again. _Good. Once you’re done with that,_ then _I want you to do the same with your reasoning behind feeling you need to keep your identity secret. Can you do this for me?_

For the third time, Mine nodded. _Yes_ , he said. _I’ll do as you’ve told me. I trust you._ And the ache in his chest eased a little as he realised that he’d spoken the truth. He did trust the Being, and that meant that for him to worry like this there had to be something wrong with him. _Thank you._ Whether it was just the energy drain or something else, Mine knew that the Being was telling him to do this for _his_ sake, not for some arbitrary reason or to have an excuse to reject him. _You promise to let me be with you on the first?_ He couldn’t help it. He needed to ask.

_I promise, mine. You’ll be here with me and my Host. Whether you’ve come to an answer and a decision or not, I will let you inside._

_Thank you._

_You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to have to force you to leave, because I have things to take care of. And you have things to do, yes?_

Mine sighed. _Yes_ , he agreed. Then he looked at the Being. _Be careful, will you? I’d rather you left your Host and took over my body than ended up hurt while trying to maintain the balance in here._ Now that they could actually meet up, it would probably work instead of just giving him a headache. And since they already had this connection, it would most likely be easier than when he’d entered the Host.

The Being sighed as well, but then nodded. _If this should fail, I might have to take you up on that offer. But I’m hoping I won’t have to. Thank you, my own. Now leave._

Stepping back, the Being once more shoved Mine away, out from the Host’s mindscape. For a long while, it felt as though he hung in solid darkness, poised on the brink of nothingness. Then he fell. His lungs and throat ached with the screams he couldn’t hear, and then he landed, painlessly, on solid ground.

Jerking awake, he immediately regretted opening his eyes. Light stabbed at him, and his throat was sore. Where was he? Flinging up his arm in front of his eyes—ignoring how it pressed his glasses into the bridge of his nose—he opened them again to a squint. He could see grass and an open bag, half spilling books onto the lawn.

Hogwarts, his mind whispered to him. He’d been pretending to read, then taken that potion.

“Harry?” an all too loud voice hollered, and Harry groaned. Hagrid. Of course.

Remembering at the last moment about the potion he was supposed to take, he shoved his arm into his bag and dug the right bottle out. This time, he didn’t even care to react to the taste. He was feeling bad enough that it didn’t matter much. It was, however a good thing that potions worked a lot faster than normal medicine. Just like with the sleeping potion, he was beginning to feel the effects of this one before he’d even put the empty bottle away, and by the time Hagrid came into view, looking decidedly distraught, Harry was able to sit up and look at him.

“Harry, what’s wrong? What happened?” Hagrid asked almost frantically.

“I, uhh…” Harry blinked and looked around. “Sorry, Hagrid. I fell asleep while reading and had a nightmare.” He scratched the back of his head. “Didn’t mean to make you worry like that.”

Hagrid slumped with obvious relief. “I thought something bad had happened, and I’d promised I’d keep an eye on you and…” He gestured helplessly, but Harry didn’t have the energy left to try to figure out what was meant by it.

“Sorry,” he said again. He rubbed his face. “I think I need to get back to my room and rest for a bit. Maybe have something to drink.” But mostly sleep. Despite that potion he was tired, but at least he wasn’t curled up in a ball whimpering with light-sensitivity and pain like last time.

It took him two attempts to put the Transfiguration book back into the bag, and when he climbed to his feet he staggered and would have fallen over if Hagrid hadn’t caught him. When he looked up, Hagrid was frowning. “You alright, Harry?”

He forced a small grin onto his face. “Thought I was,” he lied. “Maybe the sun got to me. Not sure how long I was asleep, but it must have been a while. Last time I looked at the time was… shortly after one, I think.”

“Closer to three by now,” Hagrid said gruffly, and then Harry’s world spun and he had to swallow down a wave of nausea before he reoriented himself and found himself picked up in Hagrid’s arms. “I’ll carry you to the hospital wing.”

“It’s fine, Hagrid. I just need a bit of rest. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” Hagrid insisted, and Harry was forced to close his eyes against another wave of vertigo as the giant man bent over. “Sorry, just picking up your books.”

“Please, Hagrid?” Harry begged, not even needing to fake the slight whine to his voice. He didn’t want a medi-witch or healer to look him over and realise just what was wrong with him.

He could feel Hagrid’s chest expanding and contracting with every breath as the groundskeeper considered it, and while there was a part of Harry that was humiliated over his inability to stand on his own two feet the steady movement was oddly soothing. Then Hagrid’s chest heaved as he drew in and let out a huge sigh. “Oh, fine. But promise you’ll see Madam Pomfrey if you’re not better by tonight?”

“I’ll be better by morning, Hagrid,” he promised instead. “I’ve been through this before.” That time it had been worse, and he’d _still_ been almost completely restored in less than twenty-four hours. Surely this time he’d be well enough to fake it by morning. He sighed, sensing Hagrid’s reluctance. “But if I’m not, I’ll go to Madam Pomfrey, I promise.” He was sure he’d be able to come up with a good excuse by then.

“Alright,” Hagrid finally agreed and started trekking up the slope toward the school. Harry closed his eyes and rested his head against Hagrid’s shoulder. He so rarely got to be close to someone who didn’t mean him harm, and he just couldn’t resist the urge. The man smelled of wood smoke and dog and sweat, but it didn’t stop Harry from drifting off, lulled to sleep by the regular sway of Hagrid’s long strides. He roused briefly as they came out of the sunlight, but then he blinked and the next time he opened his eyes it was because Hagrid was nudging him gently. “Right, Harry. We’re here.”

Here? Shaking his head to clear it, Harry looked up and recognised the door leading to McGonagall’s quarters—not the one that went through her office, but the one straight to the small corridor outside their bedrooms. “Thanks, Hagrid.” He made himself hug as much of Hagrid as he could reach from his position. Part of him couldn’t help but notice how close the ceiling seemed when you were eight or nine feet off the ground. He thought about asking if Hagrid realised he’d hit his head if he just jumped a little bit, but at the last moment he realised Hagrid probably was aware of that already. So instead he said, “I can make it on my own from here.”

“You sure?” Hagrid rumbled, even as he let Harry slide down to the floor and held on as if unsure Harry could stand on his own feet.

“I’m sure, Hagrid,” Harry said, smiling up at him. He took the bag and hung it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later?” He only waited until Hagrid nodded before opening the door and stepping through into the privacy of McGonagall’s home. As it clicked shut behind him, he felt a layer of tension melt away. The only ones he could run into here were McGonagall and Mipsy, and both of them he trusted more than anyone else here at Hogwarts. Quirrell not counted, of course, but he didn’t seem to even _be_ at Hogwarts right now.

“Harry?” He winced just a little as McGonagall approached him, a worried frown on her face. “Are you alright? I saw Hagrid carrying you inside, and…” She looked him up and down, as if trying to spot an injury or something.

“I’m fine, Professor,” Harry promised. “I just fell asleep outside in the sun. Scared Hagrid out of his wits when a nightmare woke me up, and he insisted on helping me back.”

He forced himself not to shrink away from her hand as she felt his forehead. “You’re a bit hot, Harry. You should have gone to the Hospital Wing instead of here.”

Sweet Merlin, not McGonagall, too. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a touch of dehydration and sunstroke.”

“Just a–” McGonagall sighed. “Harry, please understand that we’re here to help you.”

Harry sighed as well. “And I promise I’ll ask Mipsy if there’s anything I need, but right now I’m just tired and need a bit of rest. I’ll be right as rain by morning, really. It’s not the first time I’ve been through this.” He just wanted to get away from her so he could sleep.

“That doesn’t really comfort me as much as you probably hope,” she said quietly, but straightened up once more. “Very well, but if it’s not better–”

“I promise I’ll see Madam Pomfrey,” Harry cut in. “May I please go to my room now, Professor?” Before his knees gave up and he needed to sit down on the floor and rest, preferably.

“Of course, Harry. Mipsy?”

Harry bit back a groan when the elf popped into the corridor. “How can Mipsy be helping Professor McGonygall?” she asked, then gave a soft squeak when she saw Harry.

“For tonight, Harry is your main priority, Mipsy,” McGonagall said. “You make sure he’s taken care of.”

Mipsy nodded rapidly, her eyes wide. “Mipsy will be taking good care of Mister Harry Potter,” she promised.

Mipsy didn’t deserve Harry’s temper, so he made sure to speak calmly and kindly, even though he wanted to growl and snap. “Right now, I just need something to drink and a lie-down. That’s all. Please don’t worry about me, Professor. I promise I’ll say something if it doesn’t get any better soon.” And with that said, he swerved around her and headed for the guest room.

By the time he closed the door behind him, Mipsy was already setting down a glass and a pitcher filled with water on his bedside table. She then turned and looked at him, and he felt as though her overly large eyes saw more than he wanted her to.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” he said, hoping that’d make her go away without him needing to actually say it.

“Can Mipsy be doing anything else for Harry?” she asked instead, wringing her slender fingers as she peered up at him.

He tried to think about it as he went and sat down on the bed, dropping his bag next to it. “Not for now, Mipsy,” he said then with a weary sigh. “I’ll just take a nap, but I’ll call you if I need anything else. If I don’t, could you come wake me up in time for supper?”

She nodded eagerly, and just thinking about making that kind of movement himself had his head aching. “Mipsy promises,” she said. After a second or two, as though she was making sure he wasn’t about to say anything else, she vanished.

Sighing again, Harry thought about stretching out on the bed, but figured he might as well have something to drink first. Pouring water into the glass, he took a sip… and then choked as the taste was nothing like he’d expected. Salty and sweet at the same time and very obviously not water. Coughing, he set the glass down and tried to wipe the spillage off his face and trousers. “Mipsy?” he asked hoarsely once he could draw enough breath again to speak.

The house-elf appeared again, looking even more worried than before. “Harry is needing something from Mipsy?” Her voice seemed squeakier than usual.

“That’s not water, is it?”

Her ears drooped, and she tugged at one of them, pulling it down even further. “Not only water,” she admitted. “Mipsy is adding to it to help Harry recover faster. Mipsy will make sure to punish herself for the mistake.”

What? “No,” he ordered. “No punishing.” What in Merlin’s name was she talking about?

Mipsy cowered slightly, but while her ears still drooped she stopped tugging on them. Was the gesture more than just a nervous habit? “Mipsy is being sorry, Harry,” she squeaked so softly it was almost a whisper. “Mipsy _must_ be pu–”

“No,” Harry snapped, interrupting her, and his head throbbed at the sudden muscle tension. “I don’t want you to. I’m the one who assumed it was water just because it looked that way. It was _my_ mistake, not yours.” Memories of his uncle flashed through his mind, and he felt sick at the thought of Mipsy voluntarily subjecting herself to that kind of treatment because… because she thought she was responsible. “You can’t punish yourself for my mistake.”

Mipsy didn’t say anything, but the look on her face told Harry that she did indeed think she could. Or rather, that she didn’t understand why she shouldn’t be blamed for it. Sighing, Harry took another sip of the not-water; this time he was prepared for the flavour and didn’t choke from the shock. In a way, he understood her all too well, but the potion the Being had sent him seemed to be wearing off by the second, and it was getting more and more difficult to figure out what to say or how to say it. He just didn’t have the energy to make the effort right now. “We’ll talk about this again when I wake up.” Hopefully he’d be feeling better by then. “Promise me you’ll wait until then to do anything about this. Please?”

She seemed to struggle for a few seconds, but then she nodded almost reluctantly. “Mipsy will wait.”

Harry nodded. “Good. Thank you.” He didn’t wait for her to vanish again before he drained the glass and collapsed back onto the bed, curling up in the middle of it. But despite his exhaustion sleep took a while to set in as images of Uncle Vernon laying into Mipsy with his belt, or Aunt Petunia pressing the house-elf’s hand against a hot stove plate circled round and round in his head, refusing to go away.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

Sooner or later Harry must have fallen asleep, because at some point, opening his eyes again after what felt like a mere blink, the streak of light from the window had moved several feet to the right. On the bright side—and the expression amused him as it flitted across his thoughts—he didn’t feel as though the light was stabbing his eyeballs with rusty spears anymore, but he still felt weak and slightly dizzy. Despite that, he was relieved he could think more clearly, without feeling as though his mind was wrapped up in a fuzzy layer of cotton wool.

“Mipsy is waking Harry up like he asked,” a familiar voice squeaked somewhere behind him. Pushing his glasses back into place—he hadn’t even had the presence of mind to take them off before trying to sleep—he rolled over onto his back and turned to look at Mipsy.

“Thank you,” he sighed. If he was being woken up, that meant it was supper time, and Harry _really_ didn’t want to go down to eat under scrutiny. Just the thought of the Headmaster looking at him with those blue eyes of his made him shudder. He’d probably see through Harry’s excuse in a heartbeat. “Can I eat in my room?”

Mipsy nodded. “What is Harry wanting to eat?”

Harry almost laughed at the thought of being _asked_ what he wanted to eat. But as Mipsy probably wouldn’t appreciate the immediate answer of ‘food’, he said, “Just whatever is being served tonight. I’m fine with anything, really.”

Mipsy nodded again, but didn’t vanish or offer to get it for him. Instead she just stood there, wringing her hands, unwilling to look up and meet his eyes. For a moment he wondered why, but then the memory of their last conversation kicked in and he winced. Then he sighed.

“Mipsy, I…” He trailed off. How was he supposed to explain to her why it was so wrong? “Why do you think you need to be punished?” Maybe the answer to that would help him.

She made a sound halfway toward a whimper. “Mipsy is being a bad house-elf,” she said, and Harry winced. “Bad house-elves need punishing to learn being good house-elves.”

That didn’t help Harry a lot, except for bringing back a lot of bad memories he’d rather not have stirred. Exchange ‘house-elf’ for ‘freak’, and it wasn’t far from Harry’s situation, was it? “But it was _my_ mistake, Mipsy. If anyone should be punished, it’s me, isn’t it?”

At that, her eyes went as wide as saucers and she reached up to tug on her ears even as she shrunk back from the bed. “But Harry is a _wizard_! Mipsy cannot… It’s…” She shook her head vehemently.

Pushing himself up to sit, Harry shook his head. “That’s my point, Mipsy. The way you feel about that is how I feel about you punishing yourself.” She was still shaking her head, her body trembling. And Harry made a decision. He took a deep breath. “Mipsy, I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to tell anyone else. Not another house-elf, not Professor McGonagall, not the Headmaster. Can you promise that?”

For a moment, he didn’t think he’d get a response. But slowly, slowly, she seemed to pull herself together. The trembling calmed down, and she took a deep breath. Finally, she looked up at him, a small frown on her face. “Mipsy is not to be having secrets from Professor McGonygall or Headmaster. But… Mipsy is not needing to tell everything she knows if questions are not being asked.”

Harry took a moment to interpret that. “So you don’t have to volunteer information, but can’t lie if they ask you something?” Mipsy nodded. He sighed. He supposed that if Mipsy was asked about it, he couldn’t expect her to keep it a secret. “I can understand that. As long as you don’t tell anyone unless you’re absolutely forced to or if I tell you to tell someone, that’s fine. Can you promise me that?” She still hesitated. “It’s nothing that would harm anyone else.”

She swallowed, then glanced up at him before nodding once. “Mipsy is promising.”

Okay, now what? Where did he start? “I…” He swallowed. “I don’t know how much you know about me.” He bit his lip lightly.

Her eyes were still wide, but now filled with admiration rather than fear or worry. It made Harry’s spine crawl to see it. “Harry saved all the wizards and witches,” she said. “Harry is a hero.”

Oh for… He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his middle finger in behind his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not a hero, Mipsy,” he said softly, looking down at her. “I just happened to be there. My mum is the one who defeated him.”

“But everyone _knows_ Harry Potter is a hero,” she squeaked, sounding worried once more. The tips of her ears shivered.

“I don’t know what happened back then, Mipsy, but I was one year old.” He was starting to get a headache again. “The only thing I can possibly be credited with is surviving, and that was still thanks to my mum, if I’ve understood the theories right.” He took a deep breath “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” Not that he particularly _wanted_ to talk about it, but… “Do you know anything about my life after that night?”

She shook her head slowly. “Harry was taken to grow up somewhere safe. That is all Mipsy is knowing.”

“Safe.” A sound tore itself from his throat, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was a laugh or a sob. “I was never safe, Mipsy. My… My aunt and uncle hate everything un-Mugglish. If there was a Muggle version of You-Know-Who, they’d be among the first people to sign up. From the day I got there, they hated me. I was never good enough. Because I had magic—not that I knew that was the reason—I was a freak, and freaks must be punished until they learn not to be freaks anymore.” He forced himself to keep meeting her eyes, even as the horror in them grew and all colour drained from her face.

“No,” she whimpered, drawing the word out into a sound of deep pain.

“As soon as I could walk–” Most probably, at least, since his first memories were from some time around the age of four, but even in those memories it hadn’t been something new or unexpected. “–they made me work for every scrap of food and told me I was lucky they were kind enough to let me stay with them. I lived in the cupboard under the stairs, and they locked me in at night to keep me from stealing food or other things from them. I learned to cook and clean and do laundry and gardening, and if I failed to do it to their standards I was punished for it. If strange things—accidental magic or not—happened around me, I was punished for it. If I talked back to them or protested, I was punished for it. If it hadn’t been–” He cut himself off, sucking in his breath in horror as he realised how close he’d come to telling her about the Being. Thinking quickly, he changed what he’d been about to say. “If it hadn’t been for my magic, I wouldn’t have been alive to get my Hogwarts letter.” That was something he was sure of. Then again, if it hadn’t been for his magic, maybe the Dursleys wouldn’t have hated him so much.

Mipsy blinked, and huge tears spilled over to run down her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but all that came out was a soft, squeaky whimper. It made Harry’s heart ache and his eyes sting, but he kept looking at her.

“Do you understand why I don’t want you to punish yourself , Mipsy?” he asked, very softly.

As if that was the final straw, Mipsy collapsed to her knees, clutching her head and wailing loudly. What few words Harry could make out were mostly apology-related, but even so he didn’t want McGonagall to walk in on them and wonder what was going on.

“Please stop, Mipsy,” he said, bending down and touching her shoulder lightly, ignoring the tears running down his own cheeks in response to her reaction. “I don’t want Professor McGonagall to hear us and worry.”

A few seconds passed, and Harry glanced anxiously toward the door. But then the wailing trailed off into a soft whine. Mipsy sucked in her breath loudly and sniffled, finally going quiet. She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and her face splotched from the tears and exertion. “Mipsy is being so very sorry,” she managed. “Harry must not go back there.”

He gave her a weak smile as he straightened up. “I’m not going to,” he promised. “Professor McGonagall has said she’ll help me find somewhere else to live.” And even if she failed, Harry would never return to Privet Drive again if he could help it. “But you do understand, don’t you?”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she nodded. “Mipsy does understand, she does.” The unspoken ‘but’ hung in the air between them.

Harry sighed and took off his glasses to wipe his face on his sleeve. This was probably one of those things that wasn’t ‘proper’, just like with her reluctance to call him just Harry. And while she had agreed to doing that, he knew he’d never convince her to change how she addressed anyone else. But at least… Maybe he could at least talk her out of ever punishing herself on _his_ behalf. “Mipsy, I can’t… That is, I don’t… want to change who you are.” It almost hurt to say that, but while he _wanted_ to be to her like the Being had been to him, he also knew she wasn’t human. He couldn’t expect her to think or react like a human would. “And I don’t want to get you into trouble with someone else.” And he probably would, if someone else got offended by her behaviour with _them_. “All I’m asking is that you don’t punish yourself because of me, even if you think it’s your fault. I just…” He waved helplessly with the hand holding his glasses. ”I’d feel guilty, and knowing you were hurting because you thought…” He let out a short, pained laugh. “I’d feel it was _my_ fault, and I’d probably try to punish myself for that.” By drowning himself in guilt, if nothing else, he thought quite humourlessly as he settled his glasses back onto his nose.

A brief, squeaky wail, very quickly stifled behind two slender hands, came from Mipsy. She shook her head frantically, her eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.

Harry gave her a small smile. He was pretty sure he understood exactly how she felt. “So could you try? To not hurt yourself because of anything you think you’ve failed when it comes to me?” She didn’t remove her hands from her mouth, and Harry hesitated. Then he sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “If you promise to try, I’ll… I promise I’ll tell you if you’ve done anything to or for me that… that I agree needs to be…” He felt ill. “Corrected,” he settled for, unable to force himself to say anything else.

He watched her as she seemed to struggle with it. But then, slowly, she lowered her hands. He could see her swallow as she looked up at him. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded. “Mipsy will try,” she whispered. “Harry is being much too kind to Mipsy, and _much_ too kind to his Muggle relatives.” Harry blinked. It was the first time he’d ever seen her display anything close to anger, but there was no doubt about the glint in her eyes or the firm set to her mouth after that last bit. “And Mipsy promises. If Harry is ever needing help, Harry is only needing to call for Mipsy, and Mipsy will help. Mipsy will _not_ allow anyone to harm Harry.”

Something warm burned inside Harry’s chest, suffocating him and making his eyes water. While he knew the Being would help him if he asked for it, they’d known each other for _years_. He’d known Mipsy for less than a month, and… “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. She was the third person who’d ever offered to help him. Fourth, if you counted Mrs Grover, but she’d never really _done_ anything. “That means more to me than you know. I don’t know what I can do in return, but if you need help, I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

She opened her mouth, and closed it again. Harry’s vision was too blurry, despite attempts to blink away his tears, to even try to read her expression, so he waited. Finally, Mipsy said, “Mipsy is bound to Hogwarts.”

Her voice was very small, and Harry wondered what she meant. Was she saying she wouldn’t be able to help him outside of Hogwarts? Had he misunderstood what she’d said earlier, about helping him? “I don’t understand,” he said. Was she withdrawing her offer already? Surely not.

“Mipsy is bound to Hogwarts and being assigned to Professor McGonygall. Mipsy cannot… It is not possible for Mipsy to accept.”

Accept? Harry’s offer of help in return? The words ‘why not?’ burned on his tongue. He tried to hold them back; she’d explain if she wanted to, and it wasn’t up to him to demand answers. But he just didn’t understand.

He’d no more than opened his mouth to ask when Mipsy spoke up again. “Mipsy will fetch Harry’s supper now.” And before Harry could protest, she was gone.

In the two minutes it took for her to return, Harry had gone through their conversation twice. While he still wasn’t entirely sure what she’d meant, it was obvious to him that her abrupt departure was a clear signal that she didn’t want to discuss it. It hurt, on some level, but on another Harry understood and accepted that he had no right to ask her to if she didn’t want to. He was just lucky she hadn’t retracted her promise of aid.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” was all he said when she placed a tray of food on the desk. To his credit, his voice sounded calm and steady.

“Professor McGonygall said for Mipsy to please be telling Harry she is happy to hear he is doing better.”

She as in Mipsy or as in McGonagall? Standing up, Harry smiled. Possibly both. “I am doing better, yes.” He was still feeling like a wrung-out rag, but that wasn’t exactly new. The last four weeks had been heaven, but part of him couldn’t help but be slightly relieved to feel something familiar. He paused as he went past his trunk, then bent over and took out his notebook and a quill from it. He’d been given instructions, and while he’d rather not start to sort out the tangled mess inside his head he couldn’t deny that he was well enough to attempt it. He shuddered at the thought of the Being finding out that he _could_ have started and hadn’t. He’d be so disappointed with Harry then, wouldn’t he?

“Is Harry needing anything else from Mipsy?”

“No, thank you. I’m sorry for upsetting you, earlier.” Then he winced, recalling her reaction every other time he’d apologised to her.

To his surprise, there was no blubbering outburst of emotion. Instead, Mipsy sounded very prim and proper as she stated, “There is no need for Harry to be sorry to Mipsy. Mipsy is who is needing to be sorry.”

Against his will, that drew a smile from Harry. “Then we’ll both be sorry, and I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”

He saw her blink, very slowly, and then hesitantly nod. “It is not Mipsy’s place to be forgiving a wizard. But Mipsy will make an exception for Harry.”

He nodded and smiled at her. “Thank you.” She left the room and he sat down at the desk. After a few moments’ hesitation he put book and quill aside. He couldn’t write and eat at the same time, and it would be incredibly rude to ignore food that had been served specifically for him. He might not deserve to be fed this often, but… He frowned, picking up his fork as he considered that thought. That was probably a good place to start untangling his mind, and _that_ was something he could do while eating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, I could have split this chapter up into two, but I couldn’t really find a good place to do so without leaving one part incredibly short (or extending it by burying myself—and Harry—in pointless angst), so you get a longer chapter this time =)
> 
> I also did not at all expect the bits with Mipsy. She’s quickly becoming a more prevalent character in the fic than I’d thought she’d be.
> 
> As usual, please tell me if I’ve made any mistakes =)


	11. The Hogwarts Express

_…in which Harry returns to London and fails to hide in a crowd._

 

September arrived all too soon. On the morning of September first, Harry wanted to curl up under his covers and pretend the world didn’t exist. He needed more time, more time to sort his head out and remember he no longer was that boy the Dursleys had done their best to destroy. More time to pull himself to the surface and breathe. He wasn’t ready to face the world yet. Adults and children he couldn’t be himself around. People who wouldn’t want _him_ but who’d only see the character they’d read about in those god-awful biographies or history books.

But time wouldn’t stop just because he wasn’t ready, and so he pushed his worries to the back of his head and forced himself to get up and get dressed and go to breakfast. He forced himself to smile at Professor Babbling—of the Study of Ancient Runes—and Professor Kettleburn, and agree that he was looking forward to taking the Express from King’s Cross. He wasn’t, not really. He still wished he didn’t have to go all the way to London just to take the train back here again, but he also understood why they wanted him to. By not doing it, others would be able to point at it and claim he was getting ‘special treatment’, and while he agreed that staying at Hogwarts during summer might constitute special treatment it wasn’t one people would be aware of unless he told them.

Of course, there was still that niggling, irrational worry that if he didn’t do as they told him they’d turn on him and reveal themselves to be just like the Dursleys. He knew it was irrational, and he knew it wasn’t their fault, but knowing something intellectually and knowing it in his heart were two different things entirely. At least now, after two days of thinking it through and putting his thoughts on paper, he knew why he’d been so scared that the Being would abandon him. He’d have to apologise later.

“Go ahead, Harry,” McGonagall told him, after he’d finished eating and had taken his potions and just sat there, waiting. “I have some things to do, and the train doesn’t leave until eleven. Just make sure you’re ready to go at about quarter past ten.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said, and left the Great Hall. He hesitated for a few moments in the Entrance Hall, but then headed for his room. Exploration held no draw for him at the moment, and there was too much of a risk that he’d run into someone—like Filch, or one of the ghosts. In his room, he was guaranteed privacy, and he could distract his wandering thoughts by finding himself a book to read. Maybe that one on wizarding etiquette that he really should have finished by now but hadn’t even picked up yet.

After gathering up all his belongings—including Hedwig’s cage, letting the owl out the window to hunt for a bit and then make her own way to the Owlery—he dug the etiquette book out of his now sorted book compartment, flopped down on his bed and opened it up to the first page. He may not have understood much back in Diagon Alley, but he’d be damned if he let that continue. It was one thing if people _thought_ him ignorant—being underestimated wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—but for them to be proven right? No.

He was three chapters in and trying to memorise the subtle differences not only between handshakes and bows but also in the _manner_ of handshake or bow when there was a soft knock to his door before it opened. “Harry?” McGonagall said, and Harry looked up. “Are you ready? It’s about time we leave for King’s Cross.”

With only a soft sigh at needing to stop mid-chapter, Harry nodded and sat up. Tugging a hair loose, he marked the page with it before snapping the book shut. “As ready as I can be, Professor,” he said calmly and stood up.

“Make sure you take your wand from your trunk, just in case.”

Just in case of what? Nevertheless, her words had him by his trunk in a matter of seconds, but well there he swallowed and looked at his still untouched wand parcel for what felt like minutes. Finally. Setting his book aside, he pretended his fingers weren’t trembling at all as he picked it up and opened the box. He pretended he wasn’t the least bit excited as he reached out and took hold of the smooth wood. He waited for the rush of magic.

It never came.

Feeling betrayed, he stared at it, then turned to look helplessly at McGonagall, trying to figure out how to ask her what was wrong. “It’s different,” he settled on.

“Different in what way?”

“The way it feels. It’s not…” He waved his hand—the one not holding the wand, to be on the safe side.

“Alive?”

Harry nodded. Yes, that was precisely the word he was looking for.

“You’re not the first to react that way. Once you become more familiar with your core, you’ll feel your wand more easily, but I don’t think that first feeling ever comes back.”

“Oh,” Harry said, disappointed.

“If I were to guess, I’d say the sensation is boosted somehow by either Ollivander himself, wards he’s set up or even the mere proximity to all those other wands in the shop. Since eleven-year-olds aren’t exactly in control of their magic, it may be that it’s necessary in order to make the wand and child recognise each other.”

Harry bit his lip and considered it, then nodded slowly. What she said made sense, even if he didn’t exactly like it. He nodded again, more firmly this time, and then tried to figure out where to put his wand. He wasn’t entirely sure why he needed it with him as he didn’t really know how to do any magic, or what the ‘just in case’ scenario might be, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. Not until he felt more sure of himself and until he’d discussed his ‘homework’ with the Being. Besides, McGonagall _had_ rescued him from the Dursleys, and that rather made her worthy to have Harry listen to her. Certainly more than Dumbledore did. Harry couldn’t believe the Headmaster hadn’t even _once_ tried to make sure Harry was alright after ten years in Hell.

Taking out the cloth bag he’d bought for his books, he slid his etiquette book inside together with his wand. There was no noticeable increase in either volume or weight, but he hadn’t expected there to be. After thinking about it for a while, he took out one of his school robes and the ridiculous but oddly charming black hat and somehow managed to fit both of those into the bag as well. After reading—well, skimming—the book _Hogwarts: A History_ he’d found out that he’d be expected to already be wearing his uniform by the time he arrived in the village below the school. Once he’d done so, he turned to McGonagall again and nodded. “I’m ready, Professor,” he told her.

“Not quite yet, you aren’t,” she contradicted him, and gestured to his trunk. “Unless you want everyone to still think you’re getting special treatment, you probably want to bring your trunk with you.”

It took him a second or two to process that, and then he shuddered at the thought of what everyone would say. While he theoretically could come up with some sort of lie to hide it, the easiest method would indeed be by taking it with him and preventing the questions in the first place. He fished his wand out of the bag again, tapped his trunk, and then returned it to its place before bending down and picking up his trunk to put it, as well, in the book bag. He almost laughed as he looked at the bag. It didn’t even _look_ filled to the brim, and this was the most he’d ever put in it. It’d definitely come in handy during the school year, and he was glad he’d bought it.

“You won’t need a cloak?” Harry shrugged. While they had to be quite a bit further north than he was used to, it _was_ still summer. His new shirts were warmer than Dudley’s old, ratty t-shirts had been, too. And if he for some reason felt cold, he could always change into his uniform early. McGonagall seemed to interpret his shrug correctly. “Very well. Here’s your ticket.” She held out an envelope, and Harry took it. “Don’t lose it, mind.” Harry opened the envelope and took out the ticket, looking at it.

 _Hogwarts Express_. London to Hogsmeade. For some reason, seeing the words right there made Harry want to jump and squeal with delight. It really was happening. He was starting school—a boarding school, at that!—and best of all, McGonagall had promised to do her best to make sure he’d never have to go back to the Dursleys ever again.

Grinning like a loon, he carefully slid the ticket back into its envelope, then equally carefully found space in his bag for the envelope. McGonagall didn’t comment on his expression, only nodded once he was done. “Come along then,” she said. “We’ll walk to the gates and Apparate from there.”

Said and done, McGonagall then let go of Harry at the platform which was slowly starting to fill up. She nodded once at him before vanishing again with a faint popping sound. Harry looked at the spot she’d been standing for a second or two before turning his attention to the old steam locomotive sitting on the tracks. Apart from the black nose—if that was the term for trains—it was red, just like the cars behind it, and looked very fancy and official. ‘Hogwarts Castle’ it said on the side in comparatively small letters over one of the wheels.

Hogwarts. Just like when he’d seen his ticket, the word made the oddest emotion bubble up inside of him. He felt powerful, like he could pick Dudley up and throw him a hundred yards. Like he could fly just by wiggling his toes. He was going to Hogwarts—properly, this time—and he’d learn magic. Not even that irrational worry that everyone would hate him could detract from his eagerness to go to Hogwarts. And it was irrational, he knew. It was just difficult to get his emotions to understand that. So… everyone probably wouldn’t hate him. Maybe he’d even make a couple of friends as well, ones he’d be able to interact with during the day.

As soon as he saw the first children—all of them escorted to the platform by what looked like a parent or two—get on the train, Harry found a door as well and climbed onboard. His ticket hadn’t said anything to indicate seats were reserved, so he went into the nearest empty compartment and sat down by the window to safely look at the crowd.

After a few seconds of people watching, he reached for his bag and dug out his book, settling down in the corner to read. Unfortunately, he hadn’t even read two pages before the door to the compartment slammed open to reveal a freckled redhead.

“Oh, um, sorry,” the boy said, obviously not having expected Harry to be there. “Um, do you mind if I join you? It’s just, all the other compartments seem a bit full, and…”

Harry doubted that _every_ other compartment was full, but at the slightly worried glance the boy threw down the corridor he decided it didn’t matter. “Go ahead,” he said with a small smile, hiding his reluctance as he put his book aside for the time being and stood up. It was rude, after all, to ignore someone trying to make your acquaintance, no matter how crude said attempt was. He held out his hand as the boy turned back around from having closed the compartment door. “I’m Harry.”

“Oh, err…” The boy dropped the trunk he’d been dragging into the compartment, and Harry winced and wished he’d waited just a bit longer. He still didn’t have the hang of it all, did he? Then he shook the boy’s hand. “Ron. Well, Ronald, but only my mum ever calls me that, and that’s when she’s upset.”

“Need a hand with that?” Harry asked, gesturing to the trunk. “Mine came with some sort of automatic shrinking charm, so I only need to tap it to change the size. It was a present.”

“Blimey!” Ron said, staring at Harry. “That’s right expensive, it is! Well, if you wouldn’t mind helping me get it up on the shelf…”

“Not at all,” Harry responded, though to be completely honest he just wanted to get back to his book. He was just getting to the important bits!

Taking one handle each, they somehow managed to hoist the trunk up onto the luggage shelf, though Harry wouldn’t have thought they’d be able to reach it. Then he got his answer a few seconds later when the shelf moved back into its original position. Right, of course. Why wouldn’t they have automatically adjusting shelves? Or should that be ‘automagically’?

“Oh blimey!” Ron gasped then, and Harry looked down again to see the redhead staring at him, mouth open. Or rather, staring at his forehead. “You’re _him_ , aren’t you? You’re Harry Potter!”

Harry winced. “I’m Harry,” he said pointedly. When Ron drew breath, Harry held up his hand. “ _Just_ Harry. Please.”

“But…!”

Harry sighed. “Would _you_ like to have people thanking you for the night that killed your parents? Especially when you have absolutely no memory of what happened back then?”

Ron’s mouth worked for a few seconds as colour slowly rose in his cheeks until his face was almost the same shade as his hair. He looked down. “No,” he admitted. “Sorry.” He reached up and scratched the back of his head, then looked up and held out his hand. “Let me start over. Hi, I’m Ron. Thank you for helping me with that trunk.”

Harry gave a relieved smile and took Ron’s hand. “I’m Harry. You’re welcome.” He shook Ron’s hand and then sat back in his corner.

“What were you reading?” Ron asked, practically squinting as he peered at the book and obviously tried to read the title upside down. Harry obligingly held it up the right way, and saw Ron’s interest fade into horror and disbelief. “Etiquette? Why would you want to know _that_?”

Harry thought about it, but then decided there could be nothing really bad about admitting the truth about it. Part of the truth, at least. “Well… I didn’t understand much of what people were doing when I went to Diagon Alley, and people kept bowing and saying things that sounded like polite phrases but weren’t anything like what I was used to. I mean, I’ve never really had any contact with the wizarding world before, and I didn’t want to end up saying the wrong thing and giving some important bloke a deadly insult, or something. So when I saw this at the bookshop I figured I might as well give it a read.”

“Never had any contact?” Ron said, looking utterly confused. Of course that was the one thing he retained from what Harry said.

He shrugged. “I lived with my aunt and uncle. They’re Muggles and didn’t like to hear about anything remotely un-Mugglish, if that’s even a word.” Even if it wasn’t, he didn’t care. “So I was pretty startled when I got my Hogwarts letter.”

“Oh, I’d say.” Thankfully, the boy seemed to accept his words at face value. “But really, you don’t need that book. I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know!”

“Err, no offence, Ron, but… We’re eleven. I know I couldn’t explain even half of Muggle etiquette, simply because I don’t know or understand it. But I tell you what, if I don’t understand something in the book, I’ll come to you first, alright?”

That seemed to cheer Ron up, but whatever he said in response was drowned out by the sharp whistle just outside of their window. Harry looked out to find that the platform was half empty, with a couple of parents standing there without their children. And then he forgot all about what they’d been talking about as the train shuddered and jumped into motion, slowly starting to pull away from the platform. A red-headed girl ran alongside the platform’s edge, waving like a madwoman. She didn’t seem panicked about missing the train, so he assumed she was waving goodbye to someone. A small part of him wondered if she was related to Ron or if it was just a coincidence that her hair was almost exactly the same colour. Most of him, though, couldn’t care less.

“We’re moving!” he said excitedly. “We’re really going!”

Ron laughed. “‘Course we are! Don’t be daft.” Then, even as Harry’s cheeks heated and he wanted to pull out his school robes to hide under, Ron went on, “Sorry, mate. You just sounded so surprised.” He looked slightly sheepish. “Tell you the truth, I’m about as excited as you.”

“Really?” Harry asked, slightly mollified.

“Merlin, yes, I’ve had it up to _here_ –” he gestured with his hand at around his temple, “–with my brothers telling me all these stories about what it’s like at Hogwarts. I’ve got five of them, you know, and two of them are absolute horrors.”

Harry stared at him for a few seconds. Five brothers? Harry couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine what that was like. But he did have some experience with horrible relatives… “I know what you mean,” he said, thinking he did. “I lived with my cousin, and if ‘absolute horror’ fits anyone, it’d be him.” And Uncle Vernon, of course.

They talked for a while, and it didn’t take long for Harry to realise he didn’t know anything at all. What Ron meant when he said his two brothers were horrible, he meant there were pranks and jokes, but that he gave almost as good as he got. The things the twins—because that’s what they were—did were _nothing_ compared to what Dudley had done to him. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on why the twins’ pranks were nice and Dudley’s were awful, but he could tell there was a difference.

Before Ron could turn the subject to Harry’s home situation, he quickly asked about Ron’s other brothers, and found out that Percy, the next oldest after the twins, was a snobby stickler for rules who didn’t seem to have much in common with the other Weasleys at all—and who had become absolutely unbearable this year with his new and shiny Prefect badge—or ‘Perfect badge’, as Ron called it. Charlie, the second oldest Weasley child, worked with actual, real-life, living dragons, somewhere in Romania. And the oldest, Bill, lived in Egypt, working for the Egyptian Gringotts branch as a curse breaker.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, he travels around, investigating old artefacts and getting rid of curses on them,” Ron explained. “It’s right dangerous sometimes, I’ve heard. Mum’s always so worried when we get a letter from him about him going someplace new—not that she’s happy about him returning to Egypt either, with all the dangerous work there. She was so happy when he came home for the first week of August, even if it was because of the break-in.”

Harry gaped. “Someone broke into your house?”

“What? No! The Gringotts break-in, of course.”

That didn’t even make sense, and Harry said so. “Isn’t it supposed to be impossible to break in there?” He’d seen that sign, after all.

“Well, someone did. Didn’t you read about it in the Daily Prophet?”

Harry had to shake his head at that. While he had read a few issues of the newspaper while he’d been at Hogwarts, he hadn’t seen that particular story. “Muggle neighbourhood,” he offered as an excuse. “We don’t get that paper there.”

“Oh, right. Well, whoever it was did break in, but got a bad shock because the vault was empty. They didn’t get caught, unfortunately, so my brother was recalled from wherever he was to make sure there were no nasty surprises left in the vault and to help improve security. I’ll see if I can find the right issue when we get to Hogwarts. So what was it like, growing up with Muggles? I mean, it must have been quite a shock when you started doing accidental magic.”

Uh-oh. Thinking quickly, Harry glossed over those bits, and then managed to steer the conversation away from the mere basics of his own childhood by describing how Muggle schools worked, and then Ron’s dad and his interest in Muggle technology came up, and Harry spent quite some time describing simple appliances such as toasters and washing machines and microwave ovens. Ron tried to make him promise to write it down so he could send it to his dad as a Christmas present, but that just made Harry’s worries about ending up in Hufflepuff rear their heads again and he subtly switched topic. Fortunately, Ron didn’t seem to realise—or care—that Harry hadn’t even responded to the request.

Before they knew it, it was noon, and their conversation was interrupted by a great clattering out in the corridor. “Anything off the trolley, dears?” the lady who opened their compartment asked him.

Harry wasn’t exactly _hungry_ , even if he was most used to regular meals now than he’d been a month ago. On the other hand he’d also never had a chance to spend his money frivolously before, and he could practically see Ron drooling at all the sweets on the cart. Digging out his pocket money, Harry pulled out a Galleon and gave it to the lady before he picked some of everything. When he was done, he waited as the woman all too quickly calculated it up in her head and counted out his change. Then he poured his treats out onto an empty seat.

“Hungry, are you?” Ron asked.

“Are you?” Harry asked in return.

As a response, Ron held up a package which, when unwrapped, turned out to contain four sandwiches. He groaned, then. “Corned beef. She always forgets I hate it.”

Harry picked up a pumpkin pasty and held it out. “Here.”

It took him a minute or two to convince Ron to accept to share his spoils off the trolley, but soon they were happily munching their way through the sweets, the sandwiches forgotten on the other side of the compartment. Harry learned about chocolate frogs and the collectible cards inside the packages—moving, just like the portraits at Hogwarts—and about Every-Flavour Beans and each thing he tried seemed to explode with new and unfamiliar flavours on his tongue.

There was a knock on their door, and it opened to reveal a short and round-faced boy who looked very upset. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Have you seen a toad at all?”

A toad? “No, sorry,” Harry said. Ron shook his head.

The boy wailed. “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

Harry flinched at the sudden increase in noise, but tried to cover it up as a mere twitch. He wanted to find some words to console the stranger, but before he could come up with anything Ron spoke up.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” he assured the boy with a smile, and Harry smiled and nodded as well.

The boy sniffled for a little bit, then nodded morosely. “Yes, well, if you do see him…” He closed the door again and they could hear his footsteps outside for a few seconds before they vanished against the sound of the train itself.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” Ron said with a shrug, making Harry frown and wonder if his earlier words of encouragement had been real or just an attempt to get rid of the boy. “If I brought a toad, I’d lose it as quick as I could. Of course, I’m not exactly one to talk.” They both looked at the somewhat round-bellied rat sleeping on Ron’s half of the compartment. “I’ve only got Scabbers. He used to be my older brother Percy’s, you know, but Percy was made _Prefect_ , and got an owl as a present, so I inherited Scabbers.” Ron sighed, then shook his head. “All he does is eat and sleep. Mostly sleep. I keep expecting to wake up one day and find out he’s been dead for days and I’ve just not noticed because I’m so used to him sleeping.”

That seemed a bit callous to Harry—and the reiteration of Ron’s older brother being made Prefect niggled at him, for some reason—but he could somewhat understand the sentiment. Apart from when Ron had taken the rat out of its cage earlier, it had barely moved.

“The twins taught me a spell a few days ago, and I’ve been trying to get it to work ever since, but no matter how much I try Scabbers still won’t turn yellow. That’d at least make him more interesting, but either the spell’s useless, or…”

Just as Ron had dug out his wand—which looked old and half-broken, the unicorn hair inside it almost sticking out in a couple of places—the door opened again. This time a girl with bushy hair was standing in the doorway.

“Has anyone seen a toad?” she asked. “Neville’s lost one.”

Harry shook his head. “We told him just a few minutes ago that we hadn’t seen it.” He did feel a little guilty for not offering to help the boy look, like this girl obviously had, but he also didn’t want to leave Ron on his own. At least now he knew his name.

“Oh, are you doing magic?” she asked then, her eyes on the wand in Ron’s hand. “Let’s see then.” Inviting herself, she sat down.

Harry wasn’t sure he liked that, and he liked it even less at Ron’s discomfort as his spell—or rhyme—failed once more, like he’d probably known it would, and the girl practically started berating him for knowing lousy magic.

“I don’t see you doing any better,” Harry finally snapped after her rapid monologue seemed to be over. For now he ignored her question as to who they were, thrown in there at the end right after introducing herself as Hermione Granger.

“Oh, _I_ didn’t have the benefit of magical parents or siblings to teach me magic,” she said, and it was unclear to Harry if she was jealous or proud.

“Neither did I, but I don’t see that as a reason to try to put someone down the way you just did. I’m Harry, this is Ron, and we’d appreciate it if you’d un-invite yourself just as quickly as you came. I also suggest finding yourself a book on wizarding etiquette—or just plain etiquette in general—because I have to say that the way you’ve been acting this short while is appalling, even by Muggle standards.”

Both Hermione and Ron were staring at him. There were two red spots on Hermione’s cheeks as she stood up and smoothed out her skirt. “Well,” she said, raising her nose in the air, “I don’t have time to sit around here. I promised Neville I’d help him find his toad. Good day.” Turning on her heel, she left the compartment and strode down the corridor without even closing the door behind her.

“Blimey, mate,” Ron breathed. “That was vicious!”

Harry’s face was hot, and he couldn’t quite look at Ron. “Yes, well… I can’t stand bullies, and not only did she just sit down without even asking if it was okay, she then was unbelievably rude to you.” He shook his head. “That’s like eavesdropping on someone’s conversation before turning around and correcting them on their grammar, or something.”

Ron went over and closed the door, and then sat down and they spent another hour or so happily talking. They got onto Quidditch, the sport the blond boy at Madam Malkin’s had mentioned, and Ron was only all too happy to explain everything about it. By the time the compartment doors opened again, Harry was almost relieved. But only almost, because Ron had a talent for making Quidditch sound absolutely brilliant.

The doorway was filled by three boys this time. The blond one Harry had met before and two tall and broad ones who reminded him of what Dudley might have looked like if he’d had less flab and more of the ‘heavy bone-structure’ that Aunt Petunia always claimed he had.

The boy’s gaze flickered briefly between the two of them before settling on Harry. “I heard rumours that Harry Potter was on the train.” Harry wanted to groan. How the fuck, pardon his French, had anyone figured that out? Had someone heard Ron earlier, despite the door being closed? “Is that you, then?”

Harry wanted to tell the boy to bugger off and leave him alone, but… he hadn’t exactly done anything _wrong_ , and Harry wasn’t entirely comfortable with being the first to cross that line. So instead he simply nodded. “I am. You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” It was a phrase he’d picked up from his book, and while it sounded very old-fashioned he figured that it would be perfect for someone like the blond—he’d certainly sounded snooty enough for it.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle,” the boy said, indicating the two others but making no mention of whether it was their first or last names. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

Ron made a noise far back in his throat, either a cough or a snigger or a snort. Draco looked at him. “Think my name is funny, do you? Well, I hardly need to ask who _you_ are. My father’s told me all about the Weasley family.” He all but spat the name out, and it reminded Harry a lot about how Snape always said ‘Potter’. But right after Draco had listed the traits he ascribed Ron’s family as flaws, he turned back to Harry as though Ron didn’t even exist. “You’ll soon learn that some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong kind, and I can help you out.” He held out his hand.

Harry rather wanted to drive the boy away, just like he’d done with the girl, but the whole thing had reminded him of what Draco himself had said back in Diagon Alley, about making connections and about his father, and wondered if there was any way to get the boy to change his mind about Muggleborns. So he stood up and approached, yet made no move to take Draco’s hand.

“I see,” he said calmly. “So now that you know who I am, you’re eager to… what was it, ‘cultivate a friendship’? Let me tell you, Mr Malfoy, that I do not appreciate bullies and those who feel a need to push others down to feel good about themselves. You are welcome to work to become my friend, but the moment you try to decide who else I should befriend, you are the one who will be cast aside.” He held out his hand in return, a mere inch away from Draco’s, letting the other boy decide if it was worth it or not. Not rejecting Draco’s initial offer outright but making a counter-offer, he reflected, remembering what he’d read earlier that morning.

Draco looked at him for a long time. The other two boys, Crabbe and Goyle, as well as Ron, said nothing, and the silence in the compartment was heavy and thick.

“It’s up to you,” Harry said quietly, not taking his eyes off Draco to see the others’ reactions. “Is my acquaintance worth the effort to moderate your own behaviour, or will you discard the potential based on discrimination and prejudice?” He didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to use words like that. He didn’t care if it made him look weird. He only looked into Draco’s pale grey eyes and willed the other boy to make his decision. 

Draco swallowed, and Harry could see the hesitation in his eyes. Then fingers lightly closed around Harry’s in cautious acceptance of his terms. “Acquaintances, then, Mr Potter. I look forward to further discussion at a later point.” A quick glance past Harry’s shoulder, obviously at Ron, but he said nothing further. Only met Harry’s eyes, nodded, let go of his hand and backed away, turning and leaving the compartment followed by his two minions or bodyguards or whatever they were.

Harry waited until he was sure they were gone, and then he closed the compartment door again. Turning around, he leaned back against it and let out a breath, feeling the weakness in his knees.

“Merlin, Harry!” Ron was staring at him, and it looked like he was both hurt and impressed at the same time. “That was _Malfoy’s_ son! My dad’s told me a lot about him, and none of it good.”

Harry frowned. “About Draco Malfoy?” Was he that infamous?

Ron shook his head, his hair flying. “No, about his dad. Used to be a follower of You-Know-Who, but got off on a technicality and by being _rich_ enough to bribe people to vote his way.” There was a fair hint of jealousy in his voice at that last bit.

“Rumour would also have it that I’m single-handedly responsible for the death of said You-Know-Who, and how would anyone know what happened that night?” Harry shrugged. “ _Draco_ Malfoy is also not his father, just like I’m not mine and you’re not yours.”

“Maybe, but you didn’t need to be all friendly with him,” Ron muttered, folding his arms across his chest and scowling. “I met you first.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “It’s a matter of being polite, Ron. Like I told him, I do not approve of bullying and I do not like people who allow prejudice and discrimination dictate what they do and say. And actually I did meet him before, at Madam Malkin’s, though neither of us introduced ourselves at the time. I did learn a few things about him, though, and I’m not above using that to get him to see reason. If he wants to be my friend and have whatever prestige he sees in that, he’s going to have to change his ways.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Ron, that goes for you, too,” Harry said quietly, and Ron looked like Harry had just killed and eaten Scabbers. But Harry was _not_ going to fall back on old habits and let people push him around, despite that tiny voice in the back of his head saying he was making a mistake in standing up for himself. “Not that you’re friends with me for some prestige or whatever,” he added hurriedly, even if he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Not with how Ron had reacted when he realised who Harry was. Call it a small concession to said voice in the back of his head. “But I won’t accept you trying to decide who my friends are either. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. All you know about each other is what your dads have told you. It’s not a competition, Ron. I’m not some prize to be won by whoever ‘meets me first’. And if you can’t see that…” Harry swallowed and looked away, unwilling to actually say the words. He _had_ had a very nice train trip, so far, and would like Ron to be his friend. But he couldn’t very well tell Draco one thing and Ron something else. And if need be, he’d gotten along pretty much all his life with only the Being by his side, without a single friend at school. He could manage for seven more years.

Ron sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that, Harry,” he said. “Let’s just forget all that, and just have a pleasant ride.”

Harry didn’t really want to ‘just forget’ about it, but on the other hand he didn’t want to argue either. He nodded and went back to his seat, but they were both somewhat subdued and Harry didn’t really want to eat more sweets either. And either Ron felt the same way or he didn’t want to presume anything in case Harry would accuse him of stealing or something, because he didn’t eat anymore either. So they just sat there for a few long minutes, until the door opened again and the bushy-haired girl called Hermione stuck her head in again.

“Are you still not changed?” she asked. “We’ll be at Hogsmeade soon, you know, and…”

Harry tuned out whatever she was saying. Hadn’t it been for what Draco had said in the robe shop about how ‘the wrong kind’ didn’t belong at Hogwarts, he’d have said the two of them would go splendidly together. Both equally snooty and convinced of their own superiority. Well, they’d either go well together or they’d kill each other after five minutes.

“Yes, yes,” Ron grumbled, standing up and stomping over to the door. “We’re hardly going to change with a _girl_ in here, are we? Thank you, and good-bye.” And he slowly closed the doors, forcing Hermione to back away or be squeezed between them. With a huff, Ron then locked the doors as well. He turned around and looked up at his trunk, then glanced at Harry. “Um, Harry? Could you… help me get it down again?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed quickly, glad to have something to do other than sit there and worry that Ron no longer wanted to be his friend.

They got the trunk down as easily as they’d put it up there in the first place, but Harry secretly thought that if he’d known there’d be no one else in the compartment during the whole trip—proving Ron had, indeed, exaggerated when he claimed most compartments were full—he’d have suggested leaving it down instead.

“Should have just left it down on the floor,” Ron muttered, and Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed. Ron glared at him.

“Sorry,” Harry said, covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s just… I was _just_ thinking the same thing.”

Ron stared at him for a few seconds, and then his mouth spread into a wide grin and he laughed as well. And just like that, it really was as though their disagreement had never happened, the awkward stiffness between them evaporating. Ron dug out his robes from his trunk while Harry pulled his out of the book bag, and they slipped them over their normal clothes, Ron putting his jacket into the trunk instead. Harry didn’t have a jacket, but he gathered up his sweets instead and put those into his bag.

Harry didn’t ask, but he assumed Ron had inherited his robes as well, since they were a bit on the short side. He felt a bit hesitant to put his hat on—surely people didn’t actually _wear_ those hats?—but Ron didn’t seem to hesitate to wear his, so Harry reluctantly followed suit. And then they returned to their Quidditch discussion until a voice over the intercom system warned them that they’d be arriving in five minutes and to please leave their luggage on the train. Harry hesitated a little, since his was shrunk and easy to carry, but then he took out his dollhouse trunk and set it on the seats before tapping it with his wand to enlarge it again. He didn’t want to make himself out to be _too_ different, after all. Ron was suitably impressed and jealous, but settled down when Harry reminded him it had been a birthday present.

The train slowed down and stopped at the station in Hogsmeade. There was a rush as everyone tried to get out at the same time, and then Harry could hear a familiar voice calling out for all the first-years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’ve officially arrived at Hogwarts :3 After eleven chapters and nearly 75k words xD Let’s hope the rest of the year doesn’t continue at the same pace, or I’ll be sitting at close to a million words at the end of year ^^;


	12. Under Your Hat

_…in which Harry is Sorted, finds a few new questions that need to be answered, and realises that some changes must be endured._

 

They went across the lake from Hogsmeade, and while Harry had seen Hogwarts before he had to admit that the view from the waterside was even more impressive, especially now that the sun was setting and the castle’s imposing silhouette rose above them, only illuminated by small bursts of fire from torches and lanterns. The boy who’d lost his toad, Neville, had found it again—with some help from Hagrid, of all people—and no one fell into the water. No one slipped on the seemingly endless staircase leading up to the castle, either, which seemed a wonder in itself. By the time they were stood in front of the castle doors, Harry’s legs were weak with exhaustion and he was looking forward to sitting down. In all his exploring, he’d never tired himself out like this. Hagrid pounded on the door, and it opened straight away.

“The first-years, Professor McGonagall.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I’ll take it from here.” Harry looked up at the stern Transfiguration Professor as she pulled the doors open wide and beckoned them inside, and then joined in the other children’s noises of awe and appreciation over the Entrance Hall, though his were mere copies as he was already familiar with it. Unlike during the summer, the large doors to the Great Hall were wedged wide open, and Harry could hear the buzz of quiet conversation coming from within, but McGonagall led them away from it and into a smaller side room. Were Harry to guess, he’d have assumed it to be some sort of cloak room at one point in time.

They all squeezed into the room, though it was slightly cramped, and McGonagall then looked them over until everyone fell still and silent.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. You will soon enter the Great Hall to be Sorted in front of the rest of the school. The House you get Sorted into—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff or Slytherin—will be your home for the next seven years. Your behaviour and academic prowess will earn or lose you points for your House, and whichever House has the most points at the end of the year will win the House Cup.” Harry, having skimmed _Hogwarts: A History_ , already knew that part, but the book had been terribly reticent on just  _how_ the pupils were Sorted, and her comment about ‘in front of the rest of the school’ made him a bit nervous. “I suggest you take some time to smarten yourselves up. I’ll be back in a few minutes to fetch you.” She nodded, turned on her heel, and walked away.

Harry swallowed. With his luck, the Sorting included saying everyone’s name, and that would let the cat out of its bag, so to speak. Everyone would know who he was, and they were likely to let that influence how they treated him. He just hoped he’d be able to convince at least his own House—whichever it turned out to be—that he wasn’t some celebrity and he didn’t want the attention or fame.

“Do you know how the Sorting goes?” he whispered to Ron. With five older brothers, he was bound to have heard _something_ , right?

“It’s some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I hope he was joking.”

Harry swallowed again and hoped the same. A test. With potential pain. He didn’t like the sound of that at all, and from the look of the others around him he wasn’t alone in that. On the good side, Fred was one of the twins, and they had obviously tricked Ron before, so chances were this was another case of that. He just wished he knew for sure.

Silence fell over the group, broken only by some slight scuffling as people tried to straighten their clothes, and by Hermione’s voice as she quietly recited what sounded like spell names and argued with herself under her breath on how applicable they may or may not be for the Sorting. And then, finally, McGonagall came back.

“Alright, children. Form a single line and follow me, please.”

There wasn’t exactly any chance of them forming a line inside that room or sorting themselves into any kind of order, so they simply and by unspoken agreement went on a ‘first come, first serve’ basis as they exited the side room.

The first thing Harry noticed as they entered the Great Hall was that it looked different from how it had during summer. There was a multitude of lit candles floating in the air and colourful banners on the walls—four different kinds, presumably one for each House—but most of all, the four long tables were all but filled with children of various ages, their pointy hats waving in the air like a small forest as they twisted and turned to look at Harry and the rest. Harry no longer felt as awkward about wearing his. The murmur of conversation rose and fell, but slowly ebbed out into silence as they moved to the front and, on McGonagall’s word, lined up in front of the staff table, turning to face the older students.

Hundreds of faces, staring up at them, and Harry wished they weren’t standing in a single line so he had someone to hide behind. He felt as though his scar was on prominent display and everyone knew who he was already, but he refused to call attention to it by reaching up to brush his fringe into place. He wanted to squeeze Ron’s hand for support, but he didn’t dare to do that either because every movement they made would surely be noticed and studied and scrutinised, and he didn’t really want that to happen. God… Merlin knew two boys holding hand—even for a second—back at St Grogory’s would invite derogatory comments about masculinity and sexuality, and he didn’t want to bring that down on Ron the very first day of school.

Unable to do the two things he most wanted to do, he distracted himself by looking up into the ceiling, and heard Hermione mention to nobody in particular how she’d read in _Hogwarts: A History_ that it was enchanted to reflect the outside sky. She really seemed incapable of shutting up, needing to share whatever thought flew through her head. At least if it had anything to do with knowledge or learning.

When he next looked down, McGonagall had placed a four-legged stool in front of them, and on that stool sat an old and shabby hat. Aunt Petunia, Harry knew, would never have allowed it into her house, even if it hadn’t had anything to do with magic. Why was the hat there? What did it have to do with the Sorting Ceremony? Were they supposed to do something with it? Pull a rabbit out of it, or something?

He wasn’t the only one staring at the hat. Everyone in the room, including the older children, seemed to be doing the same. Then the hat moved. It twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide, just like a toothless mouth, and the hat began to sing.

Harry really shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen so many weird things since the end of July, so what difference did a singing hat do? But he couldn’t help it as he stared at the hat and listened to what it had to sing—basically about what it was and what the four Houses were.

“Try me on, and I will tell you where you ought to be,” it sang, and Harry was starting to get a clue as to how the Sorting worked.

“I’m going to kill Fred,” Ron murmured under the thunderous applause once the hat was done. “Kept going on about wrestling a troll!”

Harry smiled weakly, but didn’t respond. He was glad all they had to do was try on a hat. It was so much better than troll wrestling. Really, Ron should have known better than to believe that, but he could also see how he’d have been scared it was true if he’d been told that. He was glad Ron had at least held that particular detail back when he’d asked earlier.

McGonagall stepped forward once the applause died down, a thick scroll—as the rolls of paper were called, he’d come to find out—in her hands. “When I call your name,” she said loudly, “you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.” She unfurled the first part of the scroll. “Abbot, Hannah!”

Harry waited and listened as, one by one, the other children stepped up and switched out their pointed hat for the talking one, drowning under it until it cried out the name of one of the Houses. There were Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and Slytherins, and each time the Sorted one ran off to their table while everyone at that table—and a few others, too—clapped. Well, for most of them. He did notice that for one of the Houses, Slytherin, only the students at the Slytherin table seemed happy; instead of smiles and the occasional clap from the other three tables there were sour looks and even a few glares. McGonagall had been right, hadn’t she? Slytherins weren’t that well liked by the other three Houses, and Harry wondered if anyone would even believe him later if he mentioned that the Slytherins weren’t the only ones to laugh when ‘Longbottom, Neville’ forgot to take off the Sorting Hat before going to the Gryffindor table. Neville’s face was red with embarrassment as he jogged back to hand it to the next person waiting, and Harry felt sorry for him.

Malfoy hadn’t needed to worry. The hat had barely touched his head before it cried out, “Slytherin!” as though it was afraid to consider it for too long. But Harry, unfortunate enough to have his surname start with a P, was getting more and more worried with each child Sorted. Where would he end up? Would he land in Hufflepuff after all? What if the hat couldn’t choose for him? What if he didn’t end up in _any_ of the Houses? Would they throw him out, then?

“Potter, Harry!” McGonagall called out, and all sound died in the room. Everyone’s eyes were on Harry as he took a cautious step forward. Then the murmurs rose higher than before. Harry tried not to pay attention to them as he stepped up to the stool and climbed up on it and the hat landed on his head to sink down over his eyes.

 _Hmm, difficult, very difficult,_ a voice said in his ear, or maybe inside his head. _Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad head. Loyalty, oh yes, plenty of that. And a desire to prove yourself, too. Oh, there’s a lot of talent in you, child. But where do I put you?_

Child was, indubitably, better than ‘boy’, and Harry could live with that. _Not Hufflepuff_ , he pleaded with the hat, clutching tightly at the edges of the stool. _Please._

 _Not Hufflepuff?_ the hat questioned, obviously having heard his thoughts. It actually sounded rather surprised, though Harry had no idea whether it was because of the request or because there _was_ a request in the first place.  _Don’t worry, that wasn’t what I was thinking, and I do quite a good job of thinking, if I say so myself. No, no, I was more thinking along the lines of Slytherin or Gryffindor._

Oh. Harry flashed back to Snape’s comment about his ‘ambition’ to make his way on his own merits. Had there really been something to that, then? And then he recalled the way the Slytherins looked where they sat at their table—sour-faced, many of them, and sullen. Recalled the attitudes about Muggleborns many of them seemed to have, judging by what he’d been told. Remembered the looks on the others’ faces with each sorted Slytherin. People would hate him if he ended up there, wouldn’t they? The Slytherins for who his mother had been, for what he’d apparently done as a baby. And others would hate him simply for being a Slytherin.

_Will they? But you’d do quite well in there, I assure you._

_Maybe,_ Harry thought. _But wouldn’t I do equally well elsewhere? Perhaps more so, because people wouldn’t_ expect _me to act like a Slytherin?_ He’d be able to work towards fulfilling his ambitions, and people would either fail to see any less-than-honourable methods or they’d at least be easier to convince they’d been wrong.

The hat laughed in his ear. _I like how you think, child. A snake in lion’s clothing, eh? Well, if you’re really sure, better be…_ “Gryffindor!”

The last word was called out so that everyone could hear it, and then a loud cheer rose up. When the hat was lifted from over Harry’s eyes, he could see almost everyone at the Gryffindor table standing up.

“We got Potter!” he could hear someone cry out.

A red-headed boy with a prefect badge on his robes—Percy, Harry assumed, based on the what he’d heard from Ron—shook his hand when he got to the table, and the twins were still cheering and hugging each other, still going on about how ‘they got Potter’. Harry did his best to ignore them. He found himself a seat and turned to watch the rest of the first-years get Sorted. There weren’t that many left, and one by one they went up to the stool and pulled the hat over their eyes. One by one they were sent off to a House table by the hat’s judging.

While he waited for the rest to be Sorted, Harry peered up at the Professors sitting at the head table. In particular, he was looking for one of them. Quirrell. He was there, sitting right next to Snape. Today he was wearing a large, purple turban, and Harry wondered if it was some sort of fashion thing or if it had another purpose. Just like he hadn’t revealed much of himself to them, they hadn’t really talked much of what they were up to either. Harry missed the close friendship he had, and in a way he wished things had never changed. But on the other hand, if he could only be there with the Being while awake, he could agree to losing the closeness they had at night. But he couldn’t do that either, could he? To keep the Being safe, he couldn’t let anyone know about it, and he couldn’t just walk up to them and let them know who he was.

Finally there were only two left. Ron and a dark-skinned boy. Harry felt a little sorry for them. It had been horrible for _him_ to wait, but to be at the very end? It had to be agonising. He held his breath as the hat went down over Ron’s head, and as the hat called out, “Gryffindor!” he cheered and clapped just as loudly as the rest.

“Well done, Ron. Excellent,” Percy said as Ron collapsed into the chair next to Harry, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Ron had had just as strong expectations to end up in the ‘right House’ as Draco Malfoy had.

The stool and hat were removed from the room after the last boy—Zabini, Blaise—was sorted into Slytherin, and Dumbledore stood up to give the shortest and weirdest speech Harry had ever heard. It wasn’t made any better by Harry’s all too clear images of those sparkling blue eyes. He shivered and tried to forget that Dumbledore had more power over him than he wanted. He’d been wanting to ask the Being how to deal with that, but he hadn’t dared to. Maybe now that everyone was already at Hogwarts, he’d be able to do so? Except… How many people could claim Dumbledore as their guardian? Perhaps it would be better, after all, to avoid that subject. Maybe he could just ask in a general, very vague and non-specific, manner?

He allowed the arrival of food to distract him from his dilemma, and did his best to relax and enjoy the feast. It was, he had to admit, a relief to have had the last month or so to get used to the amounts of food served at Hogwarts, because while he still seemed to eat less than everybody else he had more than doubled his usual portions. He did wonder, though, how he’d do with his usual nutritional potions. Before, McGonagall had always handed them to him, or—for those few times he’d eaten in his room—Mipsy had delivered them together with his meal.

In the end, he needn’t have worried. Not many seconds after he’d finished his plate, a small phial appeared by it. Shooting a glance up at the table, he found McGonagall smiling and nodding his way. He smiled back and took his potion.

“What’s that?” Ron asked him.

“Just some vitamins,” Harry answered vaguely, not entirely keen on expanding on it. Not here in the Great Hall where the word would spread faster than wildfire. He knew what schools were like, after all, and even if he’d be well known because of misplaced fame rather than because he was ‘the boy Dudley’s gang hates’ it didn’t really change much in the end.

“Oh, alright,” Ron said, and Harry could have hugged him for being so accepting. Had it been Draco or that girl Hermione, Harry was _sure_ there’d have been at least ten or more follow-up questions about what kind of vitamins and why he was taking them. “What are vitamins?”

He’d celebrated too soon. “Err…” Harry thought quickly. “It’s a Muggle thing. If you want, I’ll tell you about it later.” He almost held his breath, but Ron seemed to accept the answer for what it was.

Harry looked up again, at Quirrell. Willed the man to look his way.

He didn’t.

Instead he turned away further, to say something to Snape, and all of a sudden the tingling inside Harry, the tingling in his scar, rose to a crescendo until it was so intense it _burned_ and he couldn’t help but gasp.

“You alright?” someone asked, but he couldn’t pay attention enough to even identify the voice, let alone offer a verbal response. Instead he only nodded. After an age or two, Quirrell straightened in his seat and the pleasure-pain receded into the usual tingling.

What had happened? Why did the Host turning away from Harry cause such a surge? That hadn’t happened before, not even when they’d been so close as they had in Diagon Alley. They’d even _touched_ , back then, and it hadn’t hurt. Had something happened since then? It was true that they hadn’t met each other here at Hogwarts, but… Did it have to do with whatever he’d needed Harry’s magic for? What _had_ he needed it for?

Ron, it seemed, was also wondering. “What was that about, Harry?” he asked, drawing Harry’s attention.

Harry shook his head again. “Nothing, just a headache. I get them sometimes.” Best to say that, in case it happened again. After all, if it was a side-effect of whatever had happened, it was more likely it would than not.

“Sorry to hear that, mate,” Ron commented, helping himself to a second—or possibly third—serving of steak. How could he eat that much?

“Oh, that does look good,” a morose voice said from behind them.

Harry and Ron turned around in their seats to find a ghost in… sixteenth century clothing, Harry guessed. With those frilly collars that he recalled from pictures of Henry VIII in school books, anyway. Harry had met him before and recognised him. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Harry hadn’t had the heart to mention that the first half of his surname almost sounded like a house-elf’s name, and he still didn’t. Then again, his own name wasn’t much better. “I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” the ghost continued, and then introduced himself.

“Oh!” Ron exclaimed, his face lighting up. “I know who you are! Nearly Headless Nick! My brothers told me about you.”

Harry winced, even as Sir Nicholas drew back. “I _prefer_ to be called Sir Nicholas de–” He made it no further.

“Nearly Headless? How can you be _nearly_ headless?” another boy, Seamus something, asked.

Harry secretly wondered that, too, but he certainly wouldn’t _ask_ , not like that. He might not have finished his book yet, but some things had stuck with him nonetheless. Not that it had addressed this particular situation, but it was just plain common sense, wasn’t it? “Seamus!” he exclaimed, before Sir Nicholas had time to answer. “That’s rude. And personal.”

A cold hand brushed through his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr Potter,” Sir Nicholas said softly. “Your concern is noted and appreciated, but…” He sighed. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that question, nor will it, I fear, be the last.” He raised his voice enough to be heard further than Harry and those right next to him. “It’s really very simple,” he said, sounding somewhat annoyed, before he bowed and… tipped his head, revealing that he’d been poorly decapitated and his head was still attached to his neck, if barely.

The action drew an appreciative gasp from Seamus. “Oh, that’s bloody brilliant, that is.”

Harry wasn’t sure if that was the best way to put it, but it seemed to please Sir Nicholas, who straightened and smiled. “So, new Gryffindors, _do_ do your best to win the House Cup this year. It’s been so long since that happened, and the Bloody Baron is being terribly insufferable about it all.” He glanced over toward the Slytherin table. Harry did as well and saw said bloody ghost was hovering close to Draco Malfoy, who looked about as uncomfortable about that as Harry would be.

“How’d he come to have blood all over him?” Seamus asked, obviously having looked as well, and Harry groaned. It looked like Harry’s comment had gone in one ear and out through the next, for all the good it had done the other boy.

Sir Nicholas stiffened slightly. “I have never asked,” he said delicately, before taking matters into his own hands, so to speak, and floating further down the table and out of earshot of Harry. More importantly, Harry assumed, out of earshot of Seamus.

Soon thereafter, the dishes on the table seemed to be gradually replaced by desserts. While Harry was somewhat full, it did look and smell amazing. Surely it couldn’t hurt with just a little bit, he decided and reached for a treacle tart.

The conversation around him had by then turned to the various families and origins of the pupils. Harry didn’t exactly pay attention to it. Not until Neville mentioned the abuse from his great uncle. Strangely enough, Neville didn’t talk about it as though it was abuse. No, he seemed to think it was somehow humorous to be nearly drowned or thrown out a window. And for surviving that, he’d been given a toad. Of course, if anyone had asked Harry about his childhood, he’d more than likely have tried to joke about it as well. If you made it a joke, you could pretend it didn’t hurt. You could pretend you didn’t leave yourself open to laughter or further pain. Harry had done that before, when a teacher asked him about Dudley’s treatment of him. He hadn’t wanted another teacher to somehow vanish, so he’d laughed and said they were only playing games.

Dudley had been pleased when that got back to him, and he’d only hit Harry half as hard the rest of that day.

No one seemed to notice that Harry wasn’t really talking, so he was able to listen and take in as much as possible. To be honest, the constant noise and the people all around him was starting to give him that headache he’d pretended to have earlier. He’d never really been able to socialise that much back in Muggle primary school, and he’d been more or less alone all summer. These past four weeks, with no demands on him to do chores all day long and the castle all but empty, he’d gotten used to the peace and quiet. To be thrown in at the deep end like this was… exhausting, and like he’d alluded to a few days ago he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to study in this chaos. Part of him wanted to leave the table and go to his room. Except he didn’t have a room anymore, did he? He’d… have a dormitory? He was pretty sure it had been mentioned at some point that the Gryffindors had dormitories based on year and gender. And he had no idea where that was, though he could have called Mipsy to get her to lead him there. Still, that wouldn’t have helped the fact that everyone would take notice of it. So he ate his tart and then just sat there and listened.

And then Dumbledore stood up and the Hall gradually fell silent. His eyes twinkled as he informed them about the list of banned items on the caretaker Mr Filch’s door. He further stated that students were not allowed in the Forbidden Forest, though even if he hadn’t been warned off before Harry would have thought the mere name of the woods should have made it obvious enough, and that the third-floor corridor, the one where Harry had once thought he’d heard the noise of some creature or other, was off limits. Was the creature still there, and was that why it was off limits?

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” Dumbledore said brightly. The other Professors didn’t seem to be nearly as enthused. The Headmaster waved his wand, and a ribbon flew from its tip to shape itself into words. “Everyone pick your favourite tune,” he instructed, and Harry mentally winced. Not only could he barely read the words at that distance—maybe he should have his eyes checked, now that there was no one, hopefully, who would complain that new glasses were too expensive? And even if they did complain, surely they’d be more willing to accept that it’d help his studying than the Dursleys had been—but he wasn’t sure that everyone singing different songs at once was a good idea.

It wasn’t. Somehow Harry managed to keep his face neutral through it all and even pretended to sing along, moving his mouth in a general approximation of the shapes the others made. Since they were all singing at a different pace and some of them with considerable volume, he figured no one would be able to tell he didn’t join in. The twins were last to finish, having turned the song into some sort of funeral dirge, but finally it was over. Harry bit his tongue as Dumbledore praised the cacophony, and mentally chalked up one more reason to distrust the man.

And then they were finally allowed to leave. Well, Percy told them to follow him so he could show them the way. It was a nice thing to do, really, even if he seemed a little stand-offish. Of course, it might just be part of a prefect’s duties, but even so he didn’t look like he resented the duty. He even talked a little bit as they walked, explaining some things or pointing out where some of the classrooms were. Not everyone paid attention, but Harry did. He could already find his way around the school, of course, but a map did no good without any labels, so to speak. Knowing that the third hallway on the second floor contained the History of Magic classroom, for example, was more useful than knowing how to find that hallway without having a reason to do so.

They passed the hallway leading to McGonagall’s office and quarters—and also, not surprisingly, the Transfiguration classroom, and while part of Harry wished he could stay there still he also knew it was a futile wish. Finally, several floors later, Percy stopped in front of a large portrait of a rather rotund woman in a pastel pink gown. Harry blinked, recognising her from a different portrait where she’d been taking tea with another lady. And yet… he couldn’t say she didn’t look like she belonged in this frame.

“Password?” she now asked Percy, looking down at him. Not condescendingly, Harry decided, but certainly demandingly.

“ _Caput Draconis_ ,” Percy stated, loudly enough for all of them to hear. Without comment, the portrait swung aside to reveal a hole in the wall. No, a doorway. Nodding to her, Harry stepped past the portrait and through the opening.

The Gryffindor common room was… very red. It was also, however, warm and cosy and inviting. There was a large fireplace along one curved wall, where a fire crackled merrily, and a series of squat, plush armchairs littered the round chamber. A few of them were occupied by older students, but it seemed to Harry that they were about as tired and exhausted as Harry himself felt. So when Percy pointed out the doorways to the girls’ and boys’ dormitories he wasted little time climbing the staircase, reading the signs on the doors until he came to the one for first-years. At the top, naturally.

He found his trunk at the foot of one of the four-poster beds and gratefully collapsed on top of the covers, barely bothering to raise his face off of the mattress to allow him to breathe properly.

“Great food, wasn’t it?” Ron asked him from the bed next to his, but didn’t wait for an answer before turning his attention to his rat. “Get _off_ , Scabbers! Oi, stop chewing the sheets! Don’t make me put you back into your cage! I will, I swear I will.”

Turning his head a little, Harry chuckled as he watched Ron chase the rat around the bed, catching it with not too much effort. “You know he doesn’t understand you, don’t you?” he asked.

Ron huffed, holding onto the rat with one hand and opening the cage door with the other. “You never know… Sometimes I swear it’s like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. There, Scabbers, in you go. Be good, and I’ll find you some tasty treats tomorrow, alright?”

Harry let out another chuckle as the rat stopped trying to escape and instead ambled over onto the cushion inside the cage and sprawled out on top of it, much like Harry had done on his bed. Ron was right. While it probably wasn’t true, it _did_ look like the rat had understood him. Then again, wizarding pets likely weren’t quite the same as Muggle pets, and there could very well be a bit of magic inside the rat, so maybe it was possible after all.

The others started getting ready for bed, and Harry pushed himself off the bed to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste. McGonagall must have bought them for him at some point, or perhaps Mipsy had, because that first night at Hogwarts when he came into the bathroom he’d found them both in a cup labelled ‘Harry’. It wasn’t until he came back to find the others already in their pyjamas that he realised that was one thing neither he nor McGonagall had thought of. He hadn’t thought to buy one from Madam Malkin’s, and as he’d had the room to himself it had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t sleep alone once September rolled around.

Blushing, he stripped off his clothes and slid in under the thick duvet in just his boxers. He’d wait and see if someone commented on it. If not, he didn’t particularly _mind_ , since these beds were a lot warmer than the cot in his cupboard or the half-broken bed in Dudley’s second bedroom. If they did, he guessed he could just send Hedwig to the robe shop and order some. As long as they still had his measurements, it shouldn’t be an issue.

“Night, Harry,” he heard Ron mumble.

“Night, Ron,” Harry replied, and then raised his voice just slightly. “Night, Neville, Dean and Seamus.” Just because he’d gotten to know Ron on the train, he wasn’t going to ignore the other four boys he’d share a dorm with for the duration of his education.

“Night, Harry,” the other boys echoed, one by one.

Smiling to himself, Harry closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take him.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

Something was different. He’d known it during the feast, but now it was staring him straight in the face. Well, straight in his lack of a face. It was something dark, something sick, something… tainted. It was making Mine’s stomach queasy and his head ache.

 _What have you done?_ he asked, only managing not to throw up by the fact that it wasn’t a physical nausea. _What have you done to us?_

For a long while, there was no response, and that more than the taint was terrifying. Mine was just about to apologise for speaking up, for questioning, ready to promise to never say another word if they’d just stop ignoring him.

 _What was necessary_ , came the Being’s voice then, but it was also different, and it echoed disturbingly despite the Host’s presence to provide a buffer.

No. No, no, no. Mine didn’t want different. He wanted what they’d always had. He wanted the Being, and he wanted the companionship and he wanted…

_Shh, mine. I’m still here._

But he wasn’t, because he was different and more distant and Mine wanted to cry and scream and grieve. Because something, something more precious than he’d ever known, was gone. This was worse than the Being rejecting him for being unworthy and useless. This was the Being harming _himself_ and Mine couldn’t _stand_ it.

 _I promise, mine, it will get better. Once I get what I’m after, this… this_ annoyance _will go away, and I’ll be back to normal. Except I’ll be yet another step closer to having a body of my own again._

The Being’s presence surged up around him and wrapped his somehow slimy presence around Mine. Mine wanted to jerk away from the sensation, but he wanted his Being more than that, so he leaned in closer and did his best to ignore it.

 _I’m sorry,_ he whispered, then repeated it just to be on the safe side. _I’m so sorry._ Forget the pain, forget the taint, forget everything except what was important. The Being needed a body, and they would do everything in their power to get him one.

 _We will_ , the Host agreed. _I’m also sorry, my lords. Had it not been for my weakness, this… method would not have been necessary._

It took a second or two for Mine to react. _My lords?_ He’d gotten used to the Host calling the Being ‘my lord’ after that one time it had been used by mistake, but for Mine to be included in the title? That was a first.

 _Of course. You’re closer to my lord than I am._ There was respect and jealousy hidden behind that statement, in almost equal measures.

_I told you, mine. You’ll always be a part of me, just as I will be a part of you. You’ll always be mine._

Mine smiled and, whether it was because the initial shock had passed or because he was distracted, he no longer noticed the taint quite as much. _I’m so glad to be here at Hogwarts with you._ He could say that safely now, since there was anonymity in the crowd of children. _I’ve missed being close._ They still weren’t joined nearly as closely as they had, not when there was that all-too-heavy secret between them, but it was better than it had been for weeks. At least now he wouldn’t have to lie about staying with his relatives. And after the past few days of no contact at all, Mine was ashamed to say he was quite desperate for _any_ closeness.

_As have we. However…_

Mine swallowed. He was fairly sure what was coming now, and it wouldn’t be pleasant at all.

 _I gave you a task._ Again, Mine swallowed, but he nodded. _And have you done it?_

 _I have_ , he whispered. Was he supposed to go through everything? He didn’t even know where to begin. He also wasn’t sure he wanted the Host to hear all of it, but he also didn’t want to be rude enough to tell him to stop listening.

_Will you tell me why you started doubting me?_

He wanted to tell. He just needed to be careful about _how_ he said it. Cautiously, he nodded. _It wasn’t anything you did or said_ , he began, quite honestly. _It was just… She’d been so nice to me, and she said she’d help me, but I just… They were also nice, and I kept waiting for it to break, for it to go back to normal, and…_ He hoped the Being would still think ‘they’ referred to those Muggles and not the Professors. _The better things were going, the more I convinced myself it was just a trick, that I wouldn’t be able to go to school, that everyone would hate me, just like everyone hated me in Primary because of my cousin._ He looked up at the Being. He didn’t want to talk about this, especially not with this almost fetid taint to everything around them. But the Being deserved to know, because… because he’d always cared, hadn’t he? And Mine had all but accused him of not wanting Mine. _I’m so sorry_ , he pleaded. _I was on edge that day, and no one wanted me to do anything and I just felt useless and I wanted to be useful, at least to you, and…_ He hadn’t _meant_ to doubt the Being.

 _Shh, mine_ , the Being said, and his presence wrapped around Mine. Mine shuddered at the oily sensation, but didn’t try to get away. _Trust me, you were_ very _useful._

A weight Mine had barely been aware of dropped away, and despite the grime around him he felt light and fluffy and sparkly. He wanted to ask if the Being really meant that, but he swallowed the question. Of course he did. He wouldn’t _lie_. Not like Mine had. And just like that, his good mood evaporated. _I’m sorry_ , he whispered again. _I didn’t want to lie to you._

 _Shh_ , the Being said again, but Mine shook his head.

 _No, I mean, that was also part of it. I was lying to you, and I hated myself for it and felt guilty, and I just_ knew _that if you found out I was you’d hate me, too._

Of all the responses, laughter wasn’t one he’d expected. _Oh, mine. I did know._ Mine froze. He knew? _I’m still not sure about what, of course_ , the Being continued, and Mine relaxed just a little. _But just like I have reasons for not telling you everything, I knew you had to have good reason to keep things from me. I don’t hate you._ They were both silent for a little while. Then the Being went on, _And the second part?_

The second…? Oh. Of course. His identity. He nodded. _I thought it through._ The question was how much to say. He knew he _wanted_ to tell the Being his identity, but there was still that underlying worry. Turning aside from the Being briefly, he took a deep breath. _I want to tell you, but I am still uncertain whether it’s safe to do so._ He needed to tread the line between truth and lie so carefully. _As a first-year, I am likely to be under more scrutiny than other pupils. I don’t want to give them any reason to suspect you._ He hesitated, but all his other reasons would reveal too much in and of themselves. _There’s more, too, but they are also reasons for why I can’t tell you my reasons, if that makes sense._

For a few, long seconds, he was convinced the Being would lash out at him for his refusal. But then there was a distinct softening of his presence, and he let out a wave of understanding and acceptance that almost made Mine break down. _I am not angry, mine_ , the Being said. _While I would like to know your reasons, I don’t_ need _to know them. What’s important is that_ you _know. I wish–_ He cut himself off. _It is of no importance. One day, those reasons will no longer exist, or at least will not be important enough to hold you back. I am content to wait._

The rest of Mine’s tension melted away at those words. There was still the discomfort and sensation of _wrong_ , but at least the Being wasn’t angry or disappointed. Well, not overly disappointed, at least. _Thank you_ , he said.

_That said, there is something else, and I am aware you will not like it._

Mine shuddered. That didn’t sound good at all. He didn’t want to know, not with the sorrow interlaced through the Being’s tone. But what choice did he have? Wouldn’t it be worse if he _didn’t_ know? Wouldn’t that mean the Being had to carry the burden all on his own? If Mine could help, even if just by listening, he would. He braced himself.

 _I will only allow us to meet once a week, from now on. I need the time and energy to seek the solution to our problem, and our Host needs to focus on teaching and not collapsing under the strain of holding onto my soul._ Mine was just about to offer his strength again, despite barely having recovered from the last time, but the Being squeezed down on him in a silent command to be silent and listen. _And you, my own, will need to spend your energy on learning. When I’m back to myself, I will need your wand–_ Mine gasped. _–by my side. I will need you to learn as much as you possibly can, so you can support me._

For a moment there, Mine had been worried he’d lose the wand he’d so recently acquired, but that was obviously not the case. _I will_ , he promised, somewhat reluctantly. _I’ll learn as much as I can, and I’ll be good._ It’d be difficult to only meet once a week, but he’d take it. Especially if his visits drained the Host more than… A horrible thought struck him.

 _Maybe_ , the Being answered before he could put words to it. _But it would have happened sooner or later even without your visits. Even without the barriers. Like I mentioned before, a body isn’t meant to house more than one soul, and there’s less difference between two and three than there is between one and two. This is through no fault of yours, mine, and had you not assisted us a few days ago, the situation would have been worse._

Mine wasn’t entirely convinced, but he nodded. _So what is it you need?_

Emotions flickered past. Amusement, anger, worry, fear, annoyance. _I need you to focus on learning. Let me concern myself with–_

 _No_ , Mine interrupted, and the flare of anger almost cowed him. Almost. The Being _wanted_ him to stand up for himself, didn’t he? Then he could take the results of that. _If I can help you, it won’t take as long. I told you, I’ll do anything to help you._

The Being was silent for a long time, but it was a relatively comfortable silence, so Mine was content with waiting.

_I will consider it. But I will not tell you tonight._

Mine sighed and nodded. _I understand._ He wondered if it had anything to do with the errand the giant of a man had run for Mr Twinkles, but…

The Being laughed, the merriment spreading throughout the Host’s mindscape and body until Mine could feel him jerking with every chuckle. _Mr Twinkles?_

Mine grinned and shrugged, caught up in the amusement as well. _True names don’t translate very well in here._  He still had no idea why that was, but part of him was actually somewhat glad. It did, after all, make it a little bit easier to keep his secrets.

_So I’ve noticed._

_I did notice his eyes twinkling, though._ Mine swallowed, his amusement rapidly dying. _I…_ How should he best put this without revealing the wrong thing? _He has power over me now, doesn’t he? While I’m here, I mean._ The barriers between them were weaker when they were this close, as made clear by the Being picking up on the nickname for the Headmaster, but they appeared to still be strong enough to keep the Being from reading the true power the man held over Mine. At least he made no mention of it, and Mine hoped that meant it hadn’t been overheard.

 _Just remember not to meet his eyes_ , the Being said instead. _He can’t read your mind if you don’t._ A moment’s hesitation. _The Potions Master may also be a good choice to avoid that with. I am as of yet not sure of his allegiance._

Potions… Oh! Mine quickly buried all thoughts of the hook-nosed Professor in the part of them that was his and his alone. That was one thing he _definitely_ didn’t want the Being to find out about, especially if he wasn’t sure about the man. What would he say if he knew Mine had been talking to him?  _I’ll be careful_ , he promised.

 _Good_ , the Being said, with a faint hint of annoyance. There was a brief pause, and then, _I don’t like it when you keep things from me._ There was no condemnation in his tone, no demand for the truth. Just the simple statement of a fact they both already knew. Perhaps—though Mine would never even suggest that he’d noticed—a tiny hint of petulance.

Mine burrowed closer into the Being’s embrace. _I don’t like it either_ , he admitted in return, acknowledging the other half of the truth they were both already aware of. They’d gone through it before, and they both knew that if either of them gave any sign they knew the other, the wrong people—like Mr Twinkles—might take notice.

_I know._

There was no talking after that. There were things Mine wanted to ask, but he didn’t feel that this was the time for it. He didn’t want to ruin what little time they had with questions that would probably just upset both of them. So instead they just sat there, enjoying the feeling of being close—or as close as they could be, with the barriers and lies between them—despite the grime and putrescence that had entered their world with whatever it was the Being had done to support himself and the Host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if this chapter seemed a bit choppy. It was one I’d already written before I added the last two, and while I’ve tried to catch all the necessary edits due to changes made, it doesn’t flow as smoothly as it did and I’m not 100% sure I did catch them all ^^; If you catch any mistakes or inconsistencies, you hopefully know what to do by now :3
> 
> A few lines are taken straight from the book, though I’ve tried to avoid that in favour of paraphrasing as much as possible.


	13. Steretypical Behaviour

_…in which Harry makes a trip to the Slytherin table, reveals a secret, and gets into far too many arguments._

 

It was with some trepidation that Harry made his way down to breakfast the next day. No one had mentioned his lack of pyjamas at all, but he wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t care or because they preferred to laugh about it behind his back. Still, until he knew which it was there was little he could do about it. He’d just have to keep his eyes and ears open. Of course, that decision didn’t help at all with the whispers that followed him all the way down, pointing out his scar or mentioning his name, but he did his best to ignore those. Maybe if he ignored them long enough they’d go away.

Ron had already sat down, but Harry caught sight of a white-blond head over at the Slytherin table and made a split-second decision.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Ron. I just need to have a small chat first.”

Ron blinked up at him, then looked over at the Slytherin table as well. His face darkened and his brow furrowed into a scowl. “Fine,” he said, not sounding too happy about it.

Harry sighed. “I would have done the same with you had I ended up in another House,” he said softly, hopefully too quiet for anyone but the closest to overhear them but not really caring that much if they did. “I could have, you know.”

“But he’s a _Slytherin_ , Harry,” Ron groused, stabbing his food as he stared at it. “You saw how quickly the hat Sorted him.”

Harry wanted to snap that there was nothing wrong with Slytherin. _He_ could have ended up in Slytherin, probably should have, and would that have caused Ron to turn away from him? Instead he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. The fact that he _could_ be angry about it helped; it meant he was starting to recover from the slump he’d been in for the last week or two, if not longer. “Ron.” He waited until the boy looked up at him again. “Remember what I said about prejudice?”

Ron scowled at him for a second or two, then bit his lip as his expression softened. After a couple more seconds passed, Harry was sure no response was coming, but then Ron nodded. “Yeah. I’ll… work on it, alright?”

Harry reached out and squeezed Ron’s shoulder lightly. “Thanks, mate.” Trying was all he’d ask from both of them. He stayed for another second, then let go of Ron and headed over to the Slytherin table.

Draco was, as he’d been on the train, surrounded by the two larger boys, Crabbe and Goyle. Neither of them seemed to notice Harry coming up behind him. The girl sitting across from them, however, noticed and narrowed her eyes at Harry. He didn’t remember her name from the Sorting.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she asked with an ugly sneer. It didn’t make her round face and slightly pug-ish nose look any prettier.

Draco slowly turned his head. When he saw Harry, his eyes widened just a little. Then he nodded. “Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry returned calmly. He wasn’t entirely sure what Draco meant by dropping the ‘mister’ part, whether it was a step forward or an attempt at mockery, but he was willing to follow Draco’s example on that. He was even, he decided, willing to show both Malfoy and the ones around them that he wasn’t going to hold Draco’s House against him, so instead of just nodding in return he also bent slightly at the waist, making the gesture the shallowest of bows. A gesture of respect, his book had claimed, but not one of deference or subservience. “Congratulations on Sorting into the House you wanted,” he opened with.

Draco blinked, and when Harry glanced over to the girl across he saw the shock displayed in her face. He turned his attention back to Draco just in time to see a small smile flicker across the other boy’s face. “Thank you. I hope you’re not averse to your own result?”

While it was an excellent opening to mention that the hat had wanted him in Slytherin, Harry wasn’t about to reveal that. Especially not here where everyone could hear him. Not when at least some Slytherins were bound to be looking for anything to use against him. So instead Harry returned a similarly small smile and shrugged. “It certainly doesn’t have me considering going home.” Would Draco remember those comments they’d made?

When Draco’s smile returned, slightly stronger, Harry knew he did remember. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Someone cleared his throat next to Harry, and he looked up into an older boy’s face. Harry blinked once, and then his eyes fell on the prefect badge on the boy’s school robe. “You’d better run back to your own table, little Gryffindor,” the boy said. “Didn’t your parents teach you to be wary of snakes?” A threatening sneer accompanied the question.

There was silence around him as everyone, including those at the Ravenclaw table next to them, waited to hear Harry’s response. Perhaps the prefect expected him to squeak and run off like Scabbers (or perhaps one of his not-so-sedate relatives); Harry didn’t know. But Harry had survived Vernon and Dudley, and there was no way he’d tuck his tail between his legs now, not with his faith in the Being’s support renewed. Besides, in a way it was a relief to face someone who _didn’t_ seem to make everything about his name, despite the fact that Draco had mentioned it out loud and it was unlikely the prefect hadn’t paid attention to Harry yesterday at the Sorting. So Harry didn’t run away, nor did he snap something about how his parents hadn’t exactly had time to teach him _anything_.

“I rather like snakes,” he said instead, looking up at the prefect with a hopefully calm expression. It was true, too. Snakes had never frightened him. Even the adder who’d threatened to bite him when he came a bit too close had quickly been mollified by his apology for disturbing it—and his compliments about how pretty it was. “But thank you for your concern.” Turning back to Draco, he gave a nod similar to the one Draco had given him at the start of their brief conversation. “Enjoy your breakfast, Malfoy. Please do let me know when you have time to continue our discussion.” Did that make it sound like he was the one after Draco’s ‘influence’? Maybe, maybe not, but Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to care. It was more important to let Draco know that he’d meant what he’d said on the train, and that he wasn’t about to refuse a potential friendship just because they’d ended up in different Houses. Like he’d told Ron, he’d have done the same with the redhead if the hat had decided to put him in Slytherin despite his arguments.

Draco gave him that small smile again, though this time it morphed into a smirk as he nodded back. “I look forward to it, Potter.”

With a final glance up at the prefect—who didn’t look pleased at all—Harry turned and walked back toward the Gryffindor table. It was almost completely filled by now, but Ron had saved him a seat and he sank down into it without letting it show that the others’ stares bothered him.

“Did you…” someone began. “Did you just go over to the Slytherin table?”

Harry looked up at the dark-skinned Dean, and shrugged. “Any reason why I shouldn’t?” he asked in return. Dean wasn’t the only one to stare at him after that comment, and he could see one of the girls—Fay, maybe?—open her mouth to say something, but he shook his head. “Had I been sorted into another House, I wouldn’t have stopped talking to Ron, and I won’t stop talking to anyone else I may have made acquaintance with just based on what House they were Sorted into. Letting someone’s House determine whether you can be friends or not is nothing but prejudice.”

There was silence.

“But it’s Slytherin,” the girl he was pretty sure was called Fay said. She didn’t sound too certain of herself, though.

Harry wanted to thump his head against the table in front of him, and might have done so as well if there hadn’t been a plate there. “So you’re saying you wouldn’t have minded if I’d gone to talk to a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw? You’re against it simply because it’s _Slytherin_?”

“Well, you know, they’re…”

“I’m with Harry,” Ron said then, cutting in. Glancing at him, Harry noticed he didn’t look as sure of himself as he obviously pretended to be. The freckled boy swallowed and then went on. “I mean, I have to admit the older Slytherins look scary, but it’s not right to… to treat one House differently than the others, yeah? That’s just… not fair.”

Harry rather doubted it was Ron’s true opinion, but nevertheless he smiled widely at him, happy Ron was at least making an effort at getting rid of his prejudice against the House in question. “Thanks, Ron,” he said.

“Who are you…”

“…And what have you done with our brother?” two nearly identical voices asked. Harry looked up to see the twins behind them. They weren’t staring down at Harry, however, but Ron. Biting back his assurances that he hadn’t done anything, Harry waited.

Ron slowly looked back over his shoulder, as though he wasn’t at all concerned. He shrugged. “We just talked a bit about it on the train, and I came to the conclusion that I can’t blame someone for what I’ve heard about their father. That’s all.” His eyes widened slightly. “Err, we as in me and Harry, that is.”

The twins laughed and one of them—though Harry would be damned before he could tell which one was which—reached out and ruffled Ron’s hair until it looked as messy as Harry’s. Based on the way Ron pulled his shoulders up nearly to his ears he didn’t like it, but he also didn’t pull away. Resigned to it, maybe?

“I suggest you pay more attention to your breakfast, Misters Weasley and Mr Potter,” came McGonagall’s voice from the other side of the table.

Freezing, Harry then turned around to face her. She held a stack of papers and was handing them out to the students “Sorry, Professor.”

McGonagall nodded, then paused. “Ah, right.” She drew the bottom-most two sheets from her stack and handed them across the table to Ron. “Give these to your brothers, please.” She looked pointedly at the twins. “They weren’t in their seats.”

Harry glanced at the papers, and saw they were timetables, though he couldn’t at a glance make sense of them. In the top corner it said, ‘Fred Weasley’. The twins took one each, then looked at the names written on them and switched with each other.

“Well, we’d better get back to our seats,” George—or at least the one holding George Weasley’s timetable—said.

Harry turned to watch the two older Weasleys head down to the end of the table and round it. Then he frowned and turned to Ron. He’d just opened his mouth to speak when he realised that if _he_ didn’t know, Ron probably didn’t know either. So he looked down to the nearest older pupil, a girl two seats down from him whose skin was a couple of shades lighter than Dean’s. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was Middle-Eastern or perhaps Indian like the Patil twins seemed to be.

“Excuse me, miss?” he asked, pushing aside his idle musings about her heritage. Neville, sitting between them, leaned back in his chair and whether by accident or on purpose gave Harry and the girl free sight to each other.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering… Are we supposed to have a fixed seating order?”

The girl blinked. “Not that I’m aware of. While most tend to group up with their own year, even that’s not an everyday thing. Why would you ask that?”

“I… Well, it’s just that… Professor McGonagall said the twins weren’t in their seats, and apart from when she handed over their timetables, she keeps taking the topmost one. I just figured she had to know which order people were sitting.”

The girl switched her gaze to McGonagall who was moving along the other side, pausing to hand each pupil their timetable. “Actually, I don’t know how she does that. It was the same at the start of each term last year, too. A sorting charm, maybe?”

Harry considered it for a moment. If she did sort the stack of timetables by magic just before handing them out, they probably would sort themselves according to the order people were sitting in just then. He nodded. “I see. Thank you for taking the time to explain.”

She giggled. “You’re very welcome, Harry. Err… You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you?”

There was no need to force himself to smile. “Not at all. I much prefer that, to be honest, to any other names or epithets people might apply to me.” Boy, Freak, Potter, the Boy Who Lived… The only one Harry would ever prefer over his first name was the Being’s ‘mine’, but he wasn’t very likely to admit that to anyone in his waking life, was he? Not to mention that anyone other than the Being calling him that would just be _weird_. “May I have your name in return?”

“Alicia Spinnet,” she said.

“Very nice to make your acquaintance,” Harry said with a polite nod, though his smile was still friendly.

She giggled again. “You don’t need to be so polite, Harry. Most of us Gryffindors don’t bother much with all that.”

Filing that information away, Harry allowed himself a brief chuckle. “I’ll keep it in mind. Again, thanks.” He looked to Neville. “And thank you as well, Neville. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

To his surprise, the boy blushed. “Oh, n-no need to apologise or thank me, Harry,” he said quietly, but he did lean forward in his seat again to focus on his breakfast. He didn’t even look Harry’s way, but not in a dismissive manner.

Harry frowned and was just about to ask why Neville was saying that when Neville’s story from last night made its way back to his conscious mind with stunning clarity. Oh, right. If that was what Neville was willing to talk about, chances were there were other things going on in his life as well. He hated the thought of anyone being treated the way Harry had been treated, and he resolved to take Neville aside at some point to see if he could find out a little bit more. Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the food on the table and focused on serving himself breakfast.

A few minutes later, McGonagall made her way back up Harry’s side of the table and handed his timetable over. Harry studied it, comparing it to his previous experience of schooling. His earlier frown quickly returned with a vengeance. Where were the ordinary subjects? Science subjects, fine. The wizarding world seemed to be stuck in the past anyway and the most science they seemed to be interested in was probably Potions—from what he’d read it seemed like a mix of chemistry and cooking. But English? Mathematics? Perhaps some kind of crash course to the wizarding world for those who’d grown up outside of it? Looking up, he realised McGonagall was already some six or so seats over, and he sighed. He’d just have to stop by her office at some point and ask her.

He put the timetable aside for the time being and finished his breakfast, drank the nutritional potion that appeared next to his plate, and waited for Ron to be done. Fortunately, since the redhead had started well before him, he didn’t have to wait that long. With a quick detour by the dorm to pick up their text books for the day’s classes, they then headed to the Charms classroom.

The lesson had him bubbling with delight at finally getting to learn how to use his wand. While they didn’t have any practical education, what with it being the first day, they did go through some interesting bits of theory. Ron, on the other hand, seemed utterly bored, as did several others, but Harry drank the information in. He’d never been allowed to do his best in school, because he wasn’t supposed to do better than Dudley, but now… Now the Dursleys were out of it. They couldn’t comment on his grades, they couldn’t smack him or accuse him of cheating whenever he failed to do badly. Even if he had to go back, he knew they wouldn’t want to hear a single word about his studies here. So he listened and even took notes. He still wished he had a pencil or even a pen, but all he had was his quill.

Had Ron been even a little bit interested in the class they’d just had, Harry wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from gushing about it all the way to the next classroom. As it was, he held his tongue, but it was a near thing.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom felt stale and shut in. There was the tang of garlic in the air, together with another scent Harry couldn’t place. He and Ron found a place somewhere in the middle, mostly on Ron’s initiative. Harry glanced with a quickly quenched sense of longing to the front where Hermione was sitting down. It’d be a lot easier for him to keep track of what was happening if he could sit there, but he wasn’t about to make Ron uncomfortable just for that. Then the realisation struck him that what he’d felt after Charms might just be how Hermione felt all the time. Learning things and being so excited about it that she _had_ to talk about it to whoever was nearby. She just didn’t have the awareness to realise when those around her weren’t interested in hearing about it. It may or may not be so, but it was at least a possibility. He frowned thoughtfully, studying her bushy hair from behind, but before he could stare at her long enough for anyone to notice what he was doing, a door to the side opened and Quirrell stepped through.

Harry swallowed and stared at the Professor. He was still wearing that same turban, and his eyes darted around the room nervously as he walked to the front and centre of the room.

“G-g-good m-morning,” he said, his expression somewhat twitchy as if he was struggling with his speech impediment. Harry wagered he was struggling with it, but not the way most people would think. Remembering how to stutter and when to stutter had to be something that demanded quite a bit of concentration. “B-b-books, if you will.”

He waved his wand casually at the blackboard behind him, and the page number appeared. _Well_ , Harry thought. _That’s one way to avoid having to talk all the time._

He opened up his book to the correct page, and the rest of the class was spent on reading about and then discussing what the various colours of spells might imply regarding their nature. It was interesting, but no one went particularly in-depth. Once someone mentioned a category of spells called Unforgivables, but Quirrell immediately changed the subject, giving a credible show of being terrified of those.

After class, Harry hesitated. Then he leaned closer to Ron, currently in the process of shoving his book into his bag. “Could you wait for me outside?” he asked quietly, not wanting everyone to overhear him. “I just want to ask Professor Quirrell something.”

Ron gave him a somewhat perplexed look, but nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t take too long. I’m hungry.”

It was Harry’s turn to give Ron a look. Hungry, with how much he’d had for breakfast? Where did the redhead _put_ all that food? But he didn’t say anything about it, only nodded. “I’ll be as quick as possible.”

The other students filed out while Harry slowly put away his book. Finally, just as the last of the others stepped through the door, he stood up and approached the Host. “Excuse me, Professor?” he asked politely. He needed to be careful here.

Quirrell, who’d looked like he was in the middle of a mental conversation, blinked and looked at Harry. “Yes?”

Being faced with the hint of the togetherness the Host must have with the Being all day, every day, Harry was for a moment lost for words. Being spoken to like a stranger wasn’t helping, either. Then he shook his head a little and smiled. “It wasn’t anything important, Professor. I just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed this class, and that I look forward to learning more from you.”

Something like humour flashed past Quirrell’s eyes, but he nodded. “Thank you, Mr P-p-potter. I’m s-s-sure you’ll f-find it enl-l… _light_ ening.”

Harry kept smiling. He wanted to offer his help should Quirrell need anything, but that would probably sound either too presumptuous or suspicious, so he didn’t. That could always come later, when they were more used to Harry Potter talking to them. So instead he just nodded, turned around and hurried out of the classroom to join Ron.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

The rest of the day and the beginning of the next went slowly by. In that time they had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs—the alliteration of that kept Harry amused for a minute or two—twice, once on Monday afternoon and once Tuesday morning, and then a free study period, which Harry had wanted to use to do what little homework they had and maybe read up on other classes they hadn’t had yet, but Ron had other ideas.

“Let’s go explore the grounds, Harry,” he said eagerly. “I want to see if we can catch the Giant Squid above water.”

Harry would have asked why a squid would ever be found above water unless it was dead and washed up, but he vaguely remembered reading something about the one in the Hogwarts lake being different. Sentient, maybe? But did that mean it wasn’t as dependent on water? “Fine,” he said with a smile. “I’m game for that.”

So the next two hours were spent wandering the grounds where Harry had already explored. He didn’t give any sign of that, just mostly followed Ron’s lead. He did, however, wave to Hagrid when they passed the hut where he sat in the sun on his porch. Fang barked and would have run over if Hagrid hadn’t taken a sturdy grip on his neck.

“Come on, Ron, let’s go say hi.” He ambled over. “Hi, Hagrid,” he said with a smile, before leaning over and hugging Fang. “Hello, there,” he began, then laughed as Fang immediately started slobbering over his ear. “Down, boy,” he chided and straightened up. “My ear is not for general consumption.”

“Oh hello, Harry. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh! Hagrid, this is Ron Weasley. Ron, this is Hagrid. I met him in Diagon Alley, and then we talked a little bit and he told me some stuff about my parents.”

Hagrid blinked a few times in confusion as Harry skipped past the details on just where and when they’d ‘talked a little bit’, but then he smiled. “That I did. How are you doing now that school’s started?” Harry should probably sneak by at some point soon and explain that he preferred if no one knew he’d stayed at Hogwarts during August, as that would just make them treat him differently. Maybe he could write a note and send it with Hedwig?

“Oh, it’s been brilliant! I’ve liked every class so far.” Herbology had been such a different experience from his usual gardening that he’d been riveted by the many strange plants in the greenhouse, and he’d barely been able to pay attention to Professor Sprout’s lecture. Maybe the novelty of it would wear off with time, seeing as he’d never really _liked_ gardening, but so far he liked it.

“Oh, come _on_ , Harry,” Ron complained. “You enjoyed the Defence and Charms classes? We didn’t even _learn_ anything.”

Before Harry could retort that they’d learned a lot when it came to the theory of it all, Hagrid laughed. “Oh, I remember my own classes back when I was a kid,” he said. “I know just what you mean.” He winked at Ron. “And don’t worry, once you get past the first week or so, you’ll start learning the real stuff.”

“Oh, that’ll be good,” Ron agreed.

They stayed around and talked for a while, before heading in to lunch. After finishing his own meal, Harry leaned back in his seat and decided to try to figure out how to better approach Quirrell and develop some sort of officially friendly relationship with the Professor. He’d started the process yesterday, but he wasn’t sure just how to continue. He had plenty of time to think about it while waiting for Ron to finish eating, he figured. But before he’d made any headway at all, someone cleared their throat behind him.

Harry blinked, and became aware of the wary, sullen or even hostile looks in the people around him. Turning around in his chair, he found himself facing Draco. His two bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, weren’t with him.

“Pardon the interruption, Potter,” Draco began. “I couldn’t help but notice you seemed to be finished with your meal, and wanted to inquire as to whether you’d be amenable to continuing our discussion.”

Harry blinked. Draco’s speech sounded like… well, like a speech. Rehearsed and somewhat stilted. Whether it was because he was deliberately using some sort of formal kind of phrasing Harry still hadn’t discovered the purpose of in his etiquette book or because the attention from the Gryffindors was making him nervous, Harry couldn’t tell. But he was obviously waiting for a reply, so Harry gave him a single nod and a polite smile. “That would be acceptable,” he said, almost automatically falling into the same style of talking. Glancing at Ron, he found him scowling and pouting at his plate. He held back a sigh at the obvious jealousy, wondering where Ron’s accepting attitude from yesterday’s breakfast had gone, and focused on Draco instead. “Perhaps the library?” he asked. It was an open, public space, and Madam Pince barely left the place, even for lunch. Even during summer, he’d hardly seen her at meal times. Surely that would reassure the other Gryffindors that he wasn’t about to be kidnapped or murdered?

“The library seems like an adequate location,” Draco agreed.

Harry stood up, then put a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Ron, I’ll wait for you at the library, alright? Maybe we can see if they have that issue of the Prophet before our next class?”

Ron hesitated for a moment, then looked up. His scowl was fading, if slowly, and he looked determined rather than sullen as he nodded. “Alright, mate.”

Relieved that Ron was still willing to work on his prejudices, Harry grabbed his bag and left the Great Hall alongside Draco. The Entrance Hall was empty, as was the stairwell as far as Harry could see, so he figured he might as well begin talking on the way there.

“As you may know by now, Malfoy,” he began, “I grew up with Muggles. I’m trying to learn wizarding ways, but I’m still only about halfway through the book I got back in August.” Draco said nothing, but the look he shot Harry looked a bit confused, as if he wasn’t sure where Harry was heading with this. “So I’m going to tell you plainly that if there was some sort of underlying meaning in the particular way you phrased things just now, I would like to know.”

The confusion melted into first surprise and then understanding. “Right,” he said quietly. “Well, not as such, no. It’s just… I didn’t want to say anything wrong, and I was sure those Gryffindors would take anything a Slytherin said as an insult.”

So instead he’d decided to sound like he’d stepped out of last century? “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure half of them didn’t even understand everything you said. I was told just the other day that Gryffindors as a general rule don’t do polite.” He watched Draco surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, wondering if he’d gone too far. There was probably some rule or other about not saying bad things about your own House, but then again Harry wasn’t completely a Gryffindor, was he?

Draco’s surprised look was back, mixed with a certain amount of humour. “That would explain some of the things my Housemates have told me about Gryffindors,” he said after a couple of more steps. “I assume you count yourself in the half that would understand?”

Harry smiled a little. “Assume away,” was all he said. Then, a second later, he relented and added, “But yes, I did understand the obvious meaning. I just wasn’t entirely sure if there was some sort of ceremonial interpretation of it. Like… Oh, I don’t know, a challenge to a duel should I decline, or establishing some sort of hierarchy between us based on how you phrased things and how I responded.”

Draco stopped abruptly, and Harry paused and turned around. The blond stared at him for a few seconds, then hunched over with a half-choked spluttering sound. It worried Harry until he realised it was Draco trying to keep himself from laughing. Then he was merely confused and somewhat offended. Finally Draco straightened up. “My apologies, Potter,” he said, still somewhat breathless. “And no, there was nothing of the sort involved. I…” He hesitated, then glanced around as if to make sure they were alone. “Well, to be completely honest—which I do strive not to be too often, you must understand—I had planned something completely different, but then I got there and…” He shrugged. “Long story short, I panicked and forgot what I was going to say, and fell back on old comportment lessons to save myself.”

He started walking again, and Harry fell in beside him. They walked in silence for close to half a minute, Draco’s expression suggesting he was thinking very hard about something and Harry not wanting to disturb him.

“Did it feel the same when you came by our table this morning?” Draco finally asked, very quietly.

Harry blinked, then cautiously replied, “I wouldn’t know, since I have no idea how it was for you.”

Draco hesitated again, clearly not used to opening up like this, despite his admission to having panicked. He shot a suspicious glance at Harry, who tried to make sure to not show any amusement or signs of ‘hidden anticipation’ or whatever Draco might be looking for. Whether it worked or not, Harry couldn’t tell. Draco’s eyes flickered as he searched Harry’s face before letting out a small sigh. “Like you were out of place and no one wanted you there,” he said, just as quietly as his question. “Like the next thing you said could make people either laugh at you or viciously tear into you. Like you were standing at the edge of a cliff with someone who could either pull you back or push you over.”

Harry shivered, then nodded. That was a pretty intense description, and not entirely unfamiliar. It wasn’t just when he’d been to the Slytherin table, either; Harry couldn’t deny feeling somewhat out of place among the Gryffindors as well. “Then I guess it felt about the same, yes.”

Again, Draco stopped, and the look on his face made Harry think he’d somehow failed a test of some sort, that he’d given Draco the wrong answer. “This is a bad idea,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry for taking up your time, Potter. I’ll leave you alone.”

Wait, what? As Draco spun on his heel to walk away, Harry went on pure instinct. He reached out and grabbed hold of the first thing he could reach and held on, pulling Draco to a stop.

“Please let go of my sleeve, Potter,” Draco said, his voice very carefully controlled.

“I will, as soon as you stop acting like an imbecile.” It wasn’t the right thing to say, as Draco immediately stiffened. Harry sighed. “Please, just… don’t run away, alright? I didn’t mean you _are_ an imbecile.” He’d probably ruined his chances of making Draco change his opinions by now anyway. With another sigh, he unclenched his fingers and released Draco, resigned to seeing the back of him vanish down the stairs they’d just…

Whether Draco had been about to run or not, Harry didn’t find out, because at that moment the lower end of the staircase slowly and with a grinding noise swung out of its position. Harry had never been more grateful that Hogwarts seemed to have a mind of its own.

“Please, Malfoy, will you at least tell me why you no longer want to talk to me?”

Draco crossed to the railing and leaned against it, staring out into the stairwell. “Because it was ridiculous to think that a Gryffindor would ever want to be friends with a Slytherin,” he said, his voice flat and without emotion.

Harry had a few seconds to change things before the steps arrived at the next platform and released Draco to run away. Casting a glance of his own around, he made up his mind and took a deep breath. “I’m not a Gryffindor,” he said. Draco had taken a chance and opened himself up for ridicule. The least he could do was returning the favour.

Draco turned around to sneer at him. “Oh, please. We all heard what the Hat said yesterday.”

Harry shook his head, telling himself not to take Draco’s expression personally. “You heard what it said out loud, but not the rest of it.” Draco scoffed, the look on his face clearly saying he had no clue what Harry was talking about “I’m not sure it even spoke to you, with how quickly it seemed to Sort you, but I had quite the conversation with it. It’s how it knows to Sort people.”

The staircase ground to a halt next to a landing, but Draco didn’t move. Not yet.

Looking up at the wall, Harry noticed with relief that the nearest frames were empty of people. Either they were mere landscape paintings or their inhabitants were off visiting someone else. Nevertheless he came up to the railing as well, and lowered his voice to keep anyone from eavesdropping on them. “It reads your mind, you know, and can also speak directly into your mind. Any way, it said I could fit into several Houses…” He met Draco’s gaze and took a deep breath. “…but the one I’d do best in was Slytherin.”

“What!?”

Harry hissed at him, pressing his finger to his own lips to further emphasise the meaning of the sound. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t advertise this to everyone within shouting range,” he said as firmly as he could without raising his voice. “If you hadn’t noticed, there are expectations on me based on who they think I am. People think I’m some sort of hero and expect me to behave accordingly. What do you think the reaction would have been had I Sorted into Slytherin, what with how the majority of the population seems to view the House?”

There seemed to be a war across Draco’s face between anger and shame, the two probably feeding each other as much as they fought. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he muttered.

“Had I been fortunate, their adoration of me would have waned and I’d have been forgotten. I don’t particularly want the attention anyway. More likely, however, _someone_ would have raised the question of whether I would become the next Dark Lord. Also, people would expect me to be a Slytherin, which means they’d be on the lookout for lies, deceit and ambition. As I said to the Hat, no one would expect that sort of thing from a Gryffindor, which means I’d come out even further on top. That amused it, but in the end it agreed.”

The anger had slowly faded while Harry spoke, and in its place came something looking a lot more like the kind of awe and worship that had been on the faces of the people at the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

“Potter, that’s… brilliant,” Draco breathed. “Pure brilliance. I… I retract any comment I may have made against you based on your House and the assumptions on your character from that.”

Harry nodded, but then took a step closer and grabbed hold of Draco’s collar, pulling him down until their faces were a scant inch from each other. “I’m warning you now, though. If you ever breathe a single word of this to anyone else without my permission, they will never find your body.” Okay, so that was a lie, but he couldn’t help but remember what he’d been told about Slytherins, that they’d use any advantage they could get hold of, and he really didn’t want his true House to be known to anyone he didn’t tell himself. He stared into Draco’s wide eyes, willing the other boy to believe him, hoping he looked serious enough.

Draco swallowed hard. His pupils were so large they nearly covered his irises completely as he gave a fractional nod. “Alright,” he whispered. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry remained as he was for a few moments more, before he swallowed and nodded. “Thank you. Now, to return to what we were talking about, why were you running away?”

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back, groaning softly. “It’s stupid, and I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

Harry couldn’t help but smile a little. “So you agree you did act like an imbecile?” he asked, soft but pointedly.

Draco stilled, then pulled his head up again to scowl at Harry. “Fine, I did,” he said after a few seconds.

“Shall we continue toward the library, then? Before the top of this staircase decides to dump us elsewhere?” When Draco nodded, Harry led the way in silence.

They’d reached the corridor leading past the library when Draco drew in a deep breath. “I was jealous,” he said, so quietly that Harry barely heard him.

Harry looked up at Draco through his fringe. “Jealous?” he asked, not entirely sure what Draco was referring to. He’d been spending the walk thinking about Ron and what he’d say to the other boy to pacify him that he wasn’t ‘preferring’ Draco to Ron and that he was fully capable to be friends with both of them even should it turn out Ron and Draco weren’t able to be friends with each other.

“About yesterday morning. You said you felt the same way, but you were completely calm and composed. I was jealous of that, and also convinced you were secretly laughing at me for admitting to panicking.”

Oh. Harry stopped and took hold—gently, this time—of Draco’s sleeve again until the other boy turned to face him. “I’m good at pretending to ignore that sort of thing, Malfoy,” he said gently. “I’m not ready to say more than that at this point, but I promise that I was not amused in any way at your expense.” He didn’t know Malfoy very well, and while he’d revealed some of his childhood to McGonagall and Healer Aldaine, and far too much of it to Mipsy, that was a completely different thing than to spill his guts to someone he hoped to befriend, someone he wasn’t yet sure would keep all his secrets. Because while his argument with the hat might cause him some embarrassment should it become more known, people finding out the truth about his upbringing before he was ready for it was far more dangerous. It was a doorway to someone, at some point, asking the wrong question and finding out about the Being.

That thought gave him pause. When had his decision to not reject Draco’s acquaintance turn into a desire to be friends with the boy? Sure, they’d met a month ago for the first time, but they hadn’t actually _known_ who the other was for more than a few days.

Draco nodded. “Thank you, Potter.”

Harry smiled a little. “If you’re serious about wanting to befriend me, I think you’d better call me Harry.”

The way Draco’s eyes widened at that suggestion had Harry wondering if there was some sort of social hurdle—which Gryffindors apparently ignored—you had to get past before you could be allowed to call someone by their first name. He tried to recall what his book had said regarding modes of address, but could only remember it mentioning that being on a first-name basis indicated a closer relationship. Not _where_ the line was drawn or how to get there.

“Does…” Draco’s voice was slightly hoarse, and he broke off and swallowed before starting over. “Does that mean you are amenable to becoming my friend?” he asked, as if they hadn’t already established that.

Harry’s smile widened, and just barely held back a chuckle. Based on what Draco had just told him, the Slytherin would probably automatically assume Harry was laughing at him. “I’ve never been against befriending you, Draco,” he said, trying the name out loud to see Draco’s reaction to it and to show his willingness to take that step forward. “The only parts of you I haven’t wanted to befriend are your views on my mother and on my other friends.”

“O-oh,” Draco stuttered, surprisingly like a startled Professor Quirrell. “I thought… I thought that was just something you said to be able to reject me later on. To set up your excuse beforehand.”

Harry’s grin faded at that, and he shook his head. “No. I meant what I said. As long as you do your best to change your views, or at least not speak them out loud, I would be happy to be friends with you. And before you ask… Yes, I have asked the same of Ron. He was very vocal about you after you left, having heard a lot about your father from his father, but I reminded him that even should the things he’s heard be true, you are not your father, just like he is not his and I am not mine. He’s promised to do his best.” He looked steadily at Draco. “Can you do the same?”

Draco looked conflicted again, his eyes flickering as he tried to find something to look at that wasn’t Harry. “You… you said that?” he whispered. When Harry nodded, Draco closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. Then he nodded in return. “I can… I can do the same. I’ll do my best to be civil to the… to Weasley.”

Well, it was half of what Harry had wanted, at least. “It’s a start, at least,” he said lightly, not wanting to push Draco away when he very clearly was making an effort. “Thank you. I know it can be difficult to go against what you’ve been raised with, and change opinions you might not even have reflected over before.” He’d been the same for a while, thinking he fully deserved the way the Dursleys had treated him. Had it not been for the Being, he’d probably still be stuck completely in that mindset instead of fighting to get rid of the rest of his indoctrination.

Letting go of Draco, he side-stepped the Slytherin and continued on toward the library, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was followed. After only a second or two, Draco seemed to shake himself and hurried to catch up. “Why the library?” he asked as they neared the doors.

Harry chuckled. “Because that was the first place I could think of where the other Gryffindors wouldn’t think you were either kidnapping, killing or corrupting me.”

Draco blinked, then his lips slowly quirked into a smile. It was slightly hesitant, but it was there. “I take it they wouldn’t have approved of an invitations to the dungeons, then?”

Again, Harry laughed, reaching out to pull the door to the library open. “Probably not. Mind you, that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t amuse me to see their reaction to such an invitation.” He held the door open for Draco. “It would probably be the most dramatic within the next week or so, before they’ve become more used to me spending time with you.”

“It probably would, yes,” Draco agreed as he passed, and Harry followed him to one of the smaller tables in the library. Taking a seat adjacent to the blond rather than opposite him, he leaned back in the chair, wishing it was more comfortable or that he had Professor Flitwick’s—or McGonagall’s—skill in Transfiguration so he could make it softer himself.

“You won’t end up in trouble with your Housemates for spending time with me, will you?” Harry asked quietly. Despite his wish to not let himself be influenced by preconceived notions, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit intimidated by the older Slytherins, and as always what McGonagall and Snape had said came back to him. Slytherins could be ruthless. They had expectations on behaviour.

Draco shrugged, which wasn’t exactly the answer Harry had wanted. “There’s no need to worry about that, Po– Harry. I’m a Slytherin, remember?” Harry almost laughed at that question. “If they complain, I’ll simply explain to them that I’m only working myself under the skin of the Boy Who Lived in order to benefit myself. It’s a concept that’s quite familiar to Slytherins, after all.”

For a moment, Harry could only hear those words and how Draco said them as though it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world, and all he could ask himself was, _Is that really just something he’d say, or is it the real reason he wants to be my friend?_ It hurt more than he’d expected it to. He’d told Ron that he knew Draco wanted to get to know him because of the prestige he thought he’d win by it, but ‘knowing’ it and hearing it said out loud were two completely different things, and now that he’d heard it he couldn’t quite forget it. He shouldn’t have told Draco about the Sorting Hat. He shouldn’t have admitted to wanting to be Draco’s friend. He shouldn’t have–

A hand on top of his shook him out of the swirling chaos inside his head, and he jerked upright to stare at Draco.

“Harry,” the Slytherin said quietly. “What I’d tell them and what the truth is are two completely different things. You do know that, don’t you?”

Harry could feel his head move in a stiff-necked nod, but he found himself unable to actually say it out loud. He did know that, didn’t he? Snape had said the same, that he’d have to pretend one thing, no matter what he thought. But… just like Draco hadn’t stated what the truth was outright, Snape had never confirmed that he _didn’t_ believe Muggles and Muggleborn witches and wizards should be banned from Hogwarts and killed. And that realisation dried his mouth out further until he felt like his tongue was burning every time it brushed against his palate or teeth.

“Mipsy,” he managed to whisper, but clearly it was loud enough, because a pop signalled the house-elf’s appearance between him and Draco.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “What can Mipsy be doing for Mister Harry Potter?”

“Some water, please,” he pressed out.

Mipsy didn’t even pop out to get it for him; she just waved her hand and a glass appeared in front of him. “Mipsy is trusting Mister Harry Potter to be careful to remember not to be watering the books.”

Harry had already lifted the glass, but gave her a nod before greedily gulping down its contents. “Thank you, Mipsy,” he said, setting it down again on the table. “Could you refill it before you go?” The house-elf did so and vanished.

Draco, when Harry glanced up at him, was staring. “You… have a house-elf?” Then, before Harry could say anything, he went on, “No, it called you ‘Mister’, and if it was yours it would have said ‘Master’. Whose is it, and why do they let you use it?”

It. Harry’s jaw clenched, and he had to force himself to speak quietly. “ _She_ is a Hogwarts house-elf, assigned to Professor McGonagall. I met her the day the Professor took me to Diagon Alley.” Which was absolutely true. Even with anger bubbling under the surface—a welcome change to the fear of rejection and mockery he’d sunk into just a few minutes ago—he remembered to stick to a version of August where he hadn’t stayed at Hogwarts.

Draco’s cheeks pinked. He opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it. A few seconds later, he quietly said, “I was taught to consider house-elves as little more than animals. That they were there to serve my needs, not to be coddled. While pets might have genders, livestock doesn’t unless you intend to breed them. I…” He hesitated, then forged on. “I was punished if I forgot myself and assigned them ‘human’ pronouns. I would promise to try to change, but if I start doing it here I might accidentally do it at home as well, and that wouldn’t end well for me.”

Harry swallowed, his anger fading into a slowly dawning compassion. He remembered well—all _too_ well, after his recent regression—the initial period when the Being’s care for him had started to make him realise he didn’t deserve the Dursleys’ treatment of him. Before he’d learned to mask his true feelings around his relatives. Draco obviously—hopefully—hadn’t had the same childhood Harry had, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t hold certain similarities. He nodded. “I understand. I won’t hold it against you.”

Relief and hope flashed past Draco’s face for an instant or two, making Harry smile a little. While Draco was obviously trying to project a calm and composed expression, he still slipped up. “Thank you, Harry,” he said. His mouth twitched into a half-smile. “Perhaps we should try to find a conversation topic that won’t trip us up into violent disagreements?”

Harry couldn’t quite hold back his chuckle. “I agree. That would probably be for the best. How have you enjoyed your lessons so far?”

“Adequate,” Draco said. “Unfortunately I had to suffer through Herbology and History of Magic yesterday, which aren’t exactly the most pleasant subjects in my opinion.”

“Really? I did take a look through the History of Magic textbook, and while History can at times be dull, I was looking forward to learning about the side of History I’ve never known abo… Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “For me it’s all new, but for you this must be how regular… I mean, Muggle History is for me.”

“Precisely, though I certainly have no need to learn about the history of Muggles.” He hesitated, then winced. “I didn’t mean it like that, just… I can’t see how it’d affect me. Anyway, it’s not that I’m already familiar with the subject, it’s that it’s being taught by a ghost who seems stuck on the Goblin Rebellions, at least judging by what the older Slytherins said.”

It was tempting to launch into a diatribe on just how important Muggle history could be, but Harry forced himself to bide his time. Sooner or later, he could bring up how technology was advancing, how computers were starting to become more and more common, and how shops had surveillance cameras. He’d started to figure out that the wizarding world kept itself apart from the normal, Muggle world on purpose, that they kept Muggles from finding out about the existence of magic, but what if surveillance cameras became more common? What would happen when magic was caught on camera? What about photos taken from satellites? Sure, he’d heard the only human-made landmark you could actually see on those pictures was the Great Wall of China, but those pictures were bound to become better and better, too, weren’t they? What would happen when they could zoom right into Diagon Alley and take pictures of it?

He pushed those issues aside and focused on the last thing Draco had said. “A ghost?” he asked. That would explain why he’d never really met the Professor yet. Or at least not and realised it was a Professor. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Apparently he was the Professor back when he was alive, and when he died he didn’t even realise it and headed to teach class as usual in the morning.” He sniffed. “They ought to consider retiring him and hiring someone who actually knows any history more recent than the 19th century.”

Harry frowned, thinking back to his History classes and tried to imagine a teacher entirely focused on, say, the Napoleonic War. That teacher would never have remained long. What were wizarding education standards if they didn’t even make sure the Professors kept themselves up-to-date or gave their pupils a well-rounded education? First the lack of complementary subjects, and now this. “I can’t say I disagree, based on what you’ve told me. The wizarding world does appear to be somewhat primitive–” He held up his hand to forestall arguments from Draco, whose eyes were flashing angrily, his lips a thin, pink line across his face. “I don’t mean that entirely negatively, but from where I’m looking at it, quills haven’t been used for centuries, and cooking over open flame is only for summertime when you’re out camping or grilling in your back garden.” He considered it for a moment or two. “Perhaps ‘primitive’ is the wrong word, but from what I’ve seen so far the wizarding world seems to cling very tightly to the past, to the point where it refuses any change, even when it might be for the better.”

Draco breathed somewhat loudly in and out through his nose a few times, as though attempting to calm himself down, but when it became more obvious Harry wasn’t saying anything else he gave in. “There’s nothing wrong with traditions,” he snapped, barely keeping himself under a library-appropriate volume. “If the Mu…ggleborns had their way, there’d be nothing left of the wizarding world. Even our holidays have been replaced by the Muggles’ Christmas or Halloween, in order to better accommodate them. To make them ‘feel welcome’.” He sneered. “They’re coming to _our_ world, and ought to respect _our_ rules and traditions.”

Harry’s first instinct was to snap back in defence of what he’d said and to argue the details, like using pencils or Biros instead of quills not being a bad change, but he forced himself to actually take in and consider what Draco had said. If he demanded that Draco and Ron make an effort to curb themselves, he couldn’t very well fail to do the same himself, could he? And Draco had a point. Harry just didn’t think it went against the point _he_ was trying to make.

“In a way,” he slowly began, doing his very best to stick to reason rather than emotion, “I understand what you’re saying. It’s like me getting that etiquette book instead of just assuming that you’d have the same customs that I was used to. At the same time, it’s something most people wouldn’t think of, and it’s not fair to put all of the responsibility on those raised among Muggles.”

“What?” Draco burst out, leaning aggressively toward him. “You’re actually–”

“Draco, please. It’s…” He cast about for a way to explain his thoughts, and finally landed on one he hoped would make sense. “It’s like me assuming you’d know I wasn’t laughing at you internally, without explaining in any way why you shouldn’t think that. It’s not _your_ responsibility to make sure you don’t misunderstand me, not only. It’s also my responsibility to give you that explanation and give you a _chance_ to understand.”

Draco bit his lower lip lightly and slowly settled back in his chair.

“If no one tells the Muggleborn and Muggle-raised children how this world is different from the one they come from,” Harry went on, “or even that there are differences apart from magic, how do you expect them to realise they should adopt your customs? I was thinking about that last morning, actually, when we got our timetables, and I was going to go by Professor McGonagall’s office when I had time to ask her about it. Not only are there no non-magical subjects available, like English or Mathematics—or even Latin, considering that most charms seem to be based on Latin—but there’s also no class for us to get to know the wizarding world. To learn about the differences between a bow and a handshake–”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, that should be obvious,” he heard Draco mutter under his breath, but he pretended he hadn’t heard it.

“–or, like you mentioned, about traditional wizarding holidays. To learn how to properly write with a quill, if that’s what we’re required to use at Hogwarts. To help us merge into your world and feel like we’re a part of it, instead of being ridiculed and ostracised for not knowing what we’re doing wrong.”

Harry stopped there, realising he’d been raising his voice gradually while speaking and that he’d probably come close to getting the unwelcome attention of the librarian. For over a minute, there was silence between them. Harry didn’t want to interrupt whatever thought process was going through Draco’s head, so he only waited in silence.

“It’s the Ministry,” Draco finally muttered.

“Huh?” Harry asked, then shook his head. “I mean, pardon?”

“It’s the Ministry of Magic,” Draco repeated, not quite as quietly. “They’re the ones that keep making changes to our society to better welcome the– the Muggleborns. And it’s people like Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley who keep encouraging them to do so. Father’s quite active, politically. He keeps trying to work to stop them or at least slow them down, as are some of his associates, but he says that sometimes it feels like trying to stop the sun from setting.”

Harry nodded. And if Ron’s and Draco’s dads were on different sides when it came to politics, it was no wonder they spoke negatively about each other to their children. He remembered Vernon’s rants about various political figures just because he didn’t agree with their politics or rhetoric. “I wonder if that’s how Voldemort started out as well,” he mused out loud, only registering Draco’s gasp after the words were already out. He blinked. “Sorry, You-Know-Who.” He would have thought it silly to be so scared of a name if McGonagall hadn’t told him _why_ everyone was. Even then, he didn’t see much point to them still being scared of it now when Voldemort was gone, but he could respect it.

Draco swallowed. “Father calls him the Dark Lord if he talks about him in private,” he said so softly Harry had to strain his ears to hear it. “Because that’s what he was.”

Something was niggling at the back of Harry’s mind, but he couldn’t pin it down. Pushing it further aside for the moment, he nodded. “I guess. I take it that’s not socially acceptable either.”

There was a brief grimace of distaste on Draco’s face. “No. People would see it as proof my father was willingly associated with him.” Again he bit his lip lightly before continuing with, “They already do because he has the same political view.”

“So I’ve understood from what Ron tells me his dad’s said.” He wasn’t about to go into details, of course, just as he wouldn’t tell Ron what Draco said _his_ dad might have said about Mr Weasley. His two day-time friends didn’t need that information to stand between them. They’d have enough trouble as it was to get along. And Harry wasn’t going to assume, like Ron had, that those rumours were true. Actually, even if they were, it didn’t change anything. As long as Draco’s father wasn’t running around killing people, having those political views wasn’t necessarily anything bad. Harry could even agree with them to a certain degree, and that despite him ending up with the Dursleys because of their actions. A thought occurred, and he couldn’t stop the snort of laughter at it.

“What’s so amusing?” Draco asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing,” Harry spluttered, though he admitted it might seem a bit bad considering the last thing he’d talked about was people saying things about Draco’s dad. “I just imagined people’s reactions were I to publicly support your father’s work in the Ministry.” Draco’s jaw dropped. “Oh, I’m not saying I will, at least not yet.” He winked at Draco. “But it might be a possibility you could hint at to him should he get angry with you for befriending me. Suggest that with a little convincing and lack of hostility, he could have the Boy Who Lived on his side.”

Draco’s mouth was still wide open as he stared at Harry in shock. Then he closed it so quickly Harry could hear the faint clack of teeth against teeth. “I… You… Wha…” He shook his head.

Harry giggled. “What’s the matter? Lion got your tongue?”

The joke made Draco scowl at him, but it seemed to have done its job. “Very funny, Potter,” he said. He hesitated a little. “Did you mean that? About being alright with me telling Father?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d ever agree to some sort of scheme to get all Muggles and Muggleborns executed or banished, but as long as his goals are only to make sure the Muggleborns are integrated into the wizarding society rather than the wizarding society being changed to suit Muggleborns, then I wouldn’t mind supporting him.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have suggested you telling him if I wanted you to keep it a secret. Of course, I’m sure you both understand the value of discretion, and that any premature move on his part might make me balk and take the opposite side out of sheer Gryffindorish contrariness.” He tilted his head, thinking for a second or two. “In fact, you could probably use your pursuit of my future political support as an excuse for adopting a more liberal view on house-elf keeping or whatever you might want to call it. That I have a soft heart and have expressed my distaste for people who treat a sentient race badly.” Because he did, and if there was a way Draco could change his attitude toward them without ending up in too much trouble, then he very much wanted Draco to at least try.

Draco stared at him again in what looked like complete shock and bafflement. Then his lips twitched. “Those Gryffindors won’t ever know what hit them,” he managed before burying his face in his hands and trying in vain to suppress his laughter. Harry couldn’t help but join in, snickering at the whole situation and at the redness of the ear tips sticking out from Draco’s hair.

“Harry!” a loud whisper came from behind. “Are you insane?”

Swallowing his chuckling, Harry looked back over his shoulder to find Ron standing there staring at him and Draco. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? “Hey, Ron,” he said casually, giving no sign of his worry and prodding a third chair out from under the table. “Come and sit down.”

Ron’s eyes shot to Draco, who was doing his best to calm down and pretend he hadn’t just been doubled over in laughter. “With _him_?” Ron hissed.

Draco scowled, the last of his humour fleeing from his face. “ _He_ can hear you, Weasley,” he said pointedly.

Ron scowled back. “I don’t care if you can. I’m not talking to you; I’m talking to Harry.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands for a completely different reason. Was he being a naïve idiot, trying to think the two could ever get along? Half a minute, and they were already at each other’s throats. Maybe, but that wouldn’t stop him trying. He straightened and nudged the chair again. “Ron, please.”

“Why is it _my_ fault?” Ron burst out, prompting the librarian to hush at them.

“Maybe, Weasley,” Draco sniped, “because you were the one who were rude first.” He stood up abruptly. “Thank you for the pleasant conversation, Harry. You’ve given me some things to think about. I’ll leave you two alone.”

While Harry didn’t like it, he agreed that Draco leaving was probably the quickest solution to the immediate problem. He nodded. “It was my pleasure. Get back to me once you know what you’ll do about it, please.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll talk to you later, then, Harry.” He stepped away from the table, and nodded to Ron as well. “Weasley.” And without another word he left the library.

Finally, Ron approached and sat down on the chair Harry had pushed out with his foot. “I can’t believe he’s calling you Harry like you’re really friends,” he grumbled. “I really wish my brothers had taught me some proper hexes.”

“Ron!” Harry snapped, making the redhead jump. He forced himself to calm down, not wanting Ron to think Harry didn’t want him as his friend anymore, and not wanting Madam Pince to come down on them with a vengeance. “Draco has been perfectly polite the entire time, other than when you started insulting him.” And apart from those misunderstandings, of course, but even then he hadn’t _really_ lashed out at Harry. “I’d like to be friends with both of you, but if you can’t make at least as much of an effort as Draco to be civil…” Well, then he’d have to somehow divide his days.

The colour drained from Ron’s face. “You’d rather be friends with him than with me?” he whispered.

Harry sighed. “I’d rather be friends with you _both_ ,” he reiterated. “And I’d like to have you able to at least be in the same room without quarrelling. If you can’t, I’ll simply have to schedule my time with each of you. But even then, I won’t accept either of you badmouthing the other.”

Ron snorted. “You’re telling me he hasn’t made a single comment about me and my family? Or Gryffindors in general?”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry said calmly, and ignored Ron’s, “See?” because he wasn’t finished yet. “He was concerned about me being friends with both of you, and that neither of our Houses would initially look favourably on my friendship with him. Most of the comments about Gryffindors actually came from me. And he mentioned your dad once, in the context of him and Dumbledore being on the opposite side from Draco’s dad politically. Which is a fact, not an opinion.”

“What do you mean, most of the comments came from you? Regretting your Sorting already?” Ron sounded snide, and it made Harry want to protect himself with anger in return. But just like he had with Draco, he forced himself to back away from that instinct and think.

“No, I’m not.” Though he was getting close to it, if Ron was going to act like this all the time. “Are you saying you wouldn’t want to be friends with me if I wasn’t in Gryffindor?” He tilted his head curiously in an attempt to make it extra obvious he wasn’t saying that to be mean.

Ron was obviously trying to hold on to his scowl, but his voice sounded a bit confused. “Well, no. I’m not saying that. What’s that got to do with it?”

“If a Ravenclaw made a joke about getting lost in a book, would you think it inappropriate? If not, why would it be inappropriate for me to comment casually about Gryffindor stereotypes.”

Ron now looked more frustrated than confused or even annoyed. “It’s not that,” he muttered. “It’s just…” He waved a hand helplessly, as though the gesture explained everything. Harry was tempted to point out that it didn’t, but he held his tongue for now, telling himself he had to let Ron at least make his argument before he tried to refute it. “How well do you know him? You’ve talked to him, what, twice?” Four times, actually, but Harry wasn’t about to argue the details. “How can you trust that he’s not going to just turn around and make fun of you behind your back?”

Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, sighing. Ron _did_ have a slight point. It could happen, though Harry… didn’t want to believe that. But if it were to happen, Draco would have much juicier details to spill than House stereotypes. “How can he trust that I’m not about to do the same?” he asked instead of admitting the possibility.

Ron snorted. “We’re Gryffindors, Harry. Not Slytherins.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ron. I didn’t know the animosity between the Houses was one-sided,” Harry said with exaggerated innocence. “I suppose I just imagined all those comments from the Gryffindors after I came back from talking to Draco yesterday.” To his credit, Ron actually blushed at that. “So far, from what I’ve been able to tell, it’s the Gryffindors who’ve been trying to get at the Slytherins,” Harry argued. While the Slytherin Prefect had been trying to usher him back to his own table, and others had stared daggers at him for being at theirs in the first place, it was the Gryffindors who’d tried to convince him that all Slytherins were corrupt. And Draco had been doing his best to overcome the notions he’d been raised with.

“Sorry,” Ron said quietly. “I guess I just don’t like the thought of feeding the Slytherins’ joke book.”

Harry blinked. What on earth…? “Joke book? What’s that?”

Ron shrugged. “You know, where they write down taunts and insults to pester us with.”

That sounded like the most ridiculous thing Harry had ever heard, and he wondered if it was yet another thing Ron had heard from his twin brothers. It wouldn’t surprise him. “What makes you so convinced they have one? I mean, wouldn’t _stereotypes_ suggest that a Slytherin would be too clever to actually write down incriminating evidence?”

He glanced up just in time to see Ron splutter and fail in his attempts at finding a rebuttal to that. Harry grinned at him, glad that their discussion hadn’t degenerated into a worse argument and that they both had managed to keep their tempers under control. But Ron had better come around and actually make an effort to get over those notions about all Slytherins being bad. Hm, speaking of being bad, what House had Black been in? He’d have to look that up. Either his parents had made friends outside their own House, or he’d have definite proof that not all of Voldemort’s cohorts were Slytherins.

Ron sighed. “I guess they might not _actually_ have one, but I still think it’s a bad idea to give them more ideas.”

Harry wanted to argue that Ron was only being paranoid, but accusing someone of that, even in a friendly manner, wasn’t really polite, so he held his tongue. “Still, Draco has done very little to dissuade me from wanting to be friends with him. We had a small argument about his attitude regarding house-elves, but came to an agreement. He also knows he’s not going to be able to convince me to stop being friends with you, and understands that because of me being a contrary Gryffindor any attempts to do so will most likely make me stop hanging out with him instead.” Well, at least Harry assumed Draco could extrapolate that from what Harry had said regarding Mr Malfoy.

Ron didn’t look too comfortable. “Okay, look, I… I can’t say I’m happy about you and him hanging out, but…” He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Even if I don’t trust him, I can’t decide what you should do. I’m sorry. It’s just… coming in here and seeing the two of you laughing like that… I wasn’t expecting that, and it threw me.”

On the good side, it seemed Ron hadn’t overheard much of the actual conversation—fortunately, as Harry was rather convinced Ron would have misunderstood it horribly—but was he sorry for how he’d acted, or was he sorry that he couldn’t accept Draco for who he was rather than who Mr Weasley said his dad was? Or was he just saying it because he thought it was what Harry wanted to hear? Well, either way, it didn’t look like Ron and Draco would be capable of being friends with each other, even if they were both friends with Harry. At least not yet. Which meant that instead of all three of them hanging out and getting to know each other he’d have to split his time up between the two of them. Only Ron wasn’t likely to like that either, was he? Sure, they were already bound to spend more time together due to being in the same House and sharing a dorm, but would Ron realise that or think it unfair that Harry spent so much time with Draco? He didn’t want to make Draco feel left out either, just because they couldn’t spend time together after curfew. And speaking of curfews and other time allotments…

He cast a glance at his watch, then stood up. “I’d thought we’d have time to look for that paper, but our next class begins in fifteen minutes. We’d better go, Ron, or we’ll be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up, my update rate is likely to slow down from now on, seeing as how I've reached the end of the chapters I had already finished. I've also been slightly side-tracked by another project of mine, which might slow my pace down a bit more ^^;


	14. Degrees of Familiarity

_…in which Harry points out the holes in the curriculum, enjoys the sound of silence, and gets his first detention._

 

Harry and Ron were late for Transfiguration in the end, due to getting side-lined by the staircases and ending up needing to take a roundabout route to the classroom. While they’d thought they’d made it there before her, they were quickly proven wrong when the cat sitting on the desk up front jumped down to the floor and turned into McGonagall while still in the air. After that, Harry had been hooked. Sure, he’d read through the Transfiguration text book, but it hadn’t really gone into human transfiguration at all. If that was what one could do with it, he wanted to learn everything about the subject. The things one could hear when people thought no one but a cat was listening. The places you could get into. The ease with which you could escape if you were feeling threatened. Harry was determined to be the best.

Sadly, his magic didn’t seem inclined to agree. The task seemed trivial—though he remembered what Flitwick had said about it being an essential part of learning Transfiguration—but it was all but impossible. The only relief was that no one else seemed to have done much better either. Not even Hermione, clever as she thought she was, had managed to completely change her match to a needle. He promised himself to practice as much as he had time to.

As they stood up to get going to the next class, History of Magic—though Harry wasn’t looking forward to it quite so much now after what Draco had told him—he hesitated. This was, after all, the perfect chance to talk to McGonagall. “Go on, Ron,” he said quietly. “I need to ask McGonagall something.”

Ron shot him a look. “Again? First Quirrell, now McGonagall—what’s your obsession with getting friendly with the Professors?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not that. I just have a few questions about the timetable, and she’s our Head of House, remember?”

With a final huff, Ron nodded. “Fine. Just don’t be late.”

“I’ll try not to be,” Harry said with a smile. “Keep me a seat, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Harry waited until the others had streamed through the door with only a few looks in his direction, and then approached the Professor’s desk. She looked up at him. “Yes, Mr Potter?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be heading to your next class?”

Harry swallowed. “Yes, Professor, I just… I wanted to ask you something. It’s about the subjects available here at Hogwarts.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if McGonagall looked amused or exasperated. “And what is it about them?”

Taking a deep breath, he launched himself right into it. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t offer any sort of basic education that pupils might need, like English or Mathematics. We’re only eleven when we start here, after all, and normally at least Muggle children study those subjects until well into our adult years.” Before McGonagall could say anything or tell him to get out of her office, he forged on. “Many, if not most, of the charms seem to be based in Latin, yet you don’t offer lessons in that language. It’d probably help with understanding what magic does and with pronunciation.” Just look at how many people in Charms and Defence had mangled the pronunciation of the spells, and that was just the first week; what would happen when they got to the more complicated ones? “And also, I don’t see any classes in teaching Muggle-raised children about the wizarding world, its customs and heritage. We could also benefit from learning how to write with a quill, since we’re all used to pencils and Biros.” He swallowed, only now noticing that he’d become somewhat heated as he listed the things he’d come to realise were missing from the timetable. “Sorry, Professor. I… didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just…” He trailed off, not quite knowing how to say it without making it obvious he was entertaining a whole different political viewpoint than he was probably expected to have.

“Was that all?” McGonagall asked, eyebrows arched.

Harry’s heart sank at her obvious dismissal. “Yes, Professor,” he said. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll–” He broke off as she raised one hand to stop him.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Harry,” she said gently. “I was only asking if you had any more concerns. You’re not the only one to have come to me with similar questions. I had Miss Granger here only this morning, requesting a more well-rounded education, though I must confess she gave me a far longer list of subjects.”

Harry blinked. Hermione? Well, considering her eagerness to raise her hand in class and how she assumed everyone else had also read their text books at least twice already, Harry supposed it wasn’t really that surprising. He was just a little uncomfortable about having something in common with her after their less than ideal first meeting.

“I wish I could promise to accommodate your requests. I agree that it would probably benefit not only the pupils but also us Professors to offer those courses you mentioned. The problem, as I also told Miss Granger, is that we are somewhat dependent on the Ministry for our funding. Unless we want to introduce a tuition fee, and thus make it impossible for many families to send their children here, there simply isn’t enough money to hire the required Professors. And no, before you ask, there isn’t enough time for us already existing Professors to take up those duties as well. We already have our plates full.”

Harry sighed softly, but nodded his understanding. After all, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

“I will, however, promise to bring it up with the Board of Governors. Perhaps there is a solution to be found. Unfortunately, it probably won’t be this year, or even the next.” She pursed her lips with a look of annoyance, but seemed to consider what to say, or possibly whether to say anything at all, for a few seconds. “Some of them are also of the opinion that the wizarding world is already offering Muggleborn children more than they deserve, and since two of the things you mentioned are of more benefit to those raised among Muggles, chances are they’d automatically dismiss the issue.”

Well, that wasn’t quite… One of the arguments for at least the introductory course _was_ the very same one that political side was after, so how they’d be against it Harry didn’t quite understand. Of course, it probably depended on how it was presented. “Actually…” he began hesitantly. “I’m not so sure that’s entirely true. I did have a brief conversation with Draco Malfoy just before class, and it seems to me that to implement these things is something the more conservative side should be all over.”

“How do you mean, Harry?” McGonagall asked, not even seeming to bother to comment on Draco. Then again, they’d left the Great Hall together, so she’d probably seen them, not to mention that with his luck everyone was talking about it.

“Well, one thing that came up was his dad’s political leanings, and how they think Muggleborns are pushing Muggle customs onto the wizarding world. Something they want to stop. But how do they expect Muggle-raised witches and wizards to even _know_ the wizarding world has different customs if no one bothers to inform them about it? Shouldn’t that be one of the goals of education? To properly integrate us into this society and make sure we find our place?”

McGonagall stared at him for a long time. Then she reached for quill and parchment and quickly wrote something down. “You have an excellent point, Harry, and a very advanced grasp of rhetoric and causality. It’s difficult, sometimes, to remember you’re only eleven years old.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, I never really had time to be a child,” he said quietly. And since most of his free time had been spent with adults—the Being and later his Host—it was no wonder he was more mature than his age suggested, was it?

McGonagall stilled, and she looked up at him, looking suddenly much older than she usually did. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to remind you of all that.”

Again, Harry shrugged. “You didn’t, Professor. It’s somewhat difficult to forget in the first place.” Speaking of which, he wanted to ask her if Dumbledore had ever inquired about his well-being, but he also wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. What if she told the Headmaster that he’d asked about it? No, the less he involved himself in that whole mess, the better. Perhaps, if he kept staying away the whole year, Harry would have grounds to claim neglect and request another magical guardian?

“I suppose it is,” she said, just a bit sadly. Putting whatever she’d written aside, she stood up. “Again, thank you for bringing these concerns to me, Mr Potter,” she said, her choice of words and her tone of voice telling Harry she was speaking in an official capacity rather than as simply someone who cared about him.

Harry nodded. “You’re welcome, Professor. Thank you for agreeing to see what can be done.” He hesitated. “Would it be possible… I mean, I would appreciate it if you’d tell me if there are any news, or what the Board of Governors says about it. Just in general, of course,” he quickly added, in case she thought he meant he wanted the details about it. “If they’re positively or negatively inclined, I mean. Unless it’s against the rules, of course.”

She smiled, her face losing some of the tension. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can, Mr Potter,” she said. “Provided I’m not told to keep it to myself, but if I am I can let you know _that_ much, at least.”

“Thank you, Professor.” He took half a step back, then remembered something else and reversed the movement. “Actually, I wanted to ask one other thing, Professor.” He hesitated. “I… Well, I couldn’t help but notice, I mean, I don’t want to be a bother, but I think…” He took a deep breath. “I think I might need new glasses.”

She frowned. “There’s something wrong with them?”

“N-no, not as such, but… It takes me too long to read what’s written on the blackboards because of the blur, so I can’t really make efficient notes, and I thought that maybe, now that I have money of my own, I could possibly use some of it to… Only I don’t know where or how to do that, plus I promised to talk to you or the Headmaster because I figure they have to be expensive, and maybe it’s not really worth it, but I thought–”

She held up her hand, and Harry bit his tongue to stop himself. “You have a hard time reading what’s on the blackboard because your spectacles aren’t strong enough?”

Harry nodded, wondering if he’d made the right decision to ask. But no. McGonagall was nothing like the Dursleys, and surely she wouldn’t berate him for making the request.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Harry? This would have been much easier to arrange during the summer.”

“Sorry, Professor,” he said, but pushed aside the feeling of having done something wrong. “I just didn’t think about it until I had to keep up in classes.” And when he’d realised he couldn’t even read the lyrics to the Hogwarts song. “It’s not a big deal though. I can wait until winter holidays, if that makes it easier.”

McGonagall wrote something on a slip of parchment before she stood up. “Absolutely not, Harry. I’ll get you an appointment this weekend and escort you there and back. Your studies will suffer when you can’t see properly, and the risks of magical mishaps are too great.”

Oh, that explained why she was in such a hurry. He nodded. “Thank you, Professor. You’ll let me know when you know what time the appointment is?”

She smiled at him and nodded. “Of course.” She held out the slip of paper. “Here. In case someone should question why you’re late to your next class.”

Harry smiled and nodded, taking it and slipping it into his bag. “Thanks again, Professor.” He hurried out of the classroom and made his way to History of Magic, sincerely hoping Malfoy had been wrong about the class.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

It was far too easy to get dragged along by Ron into all sorts of things. Sure, it wasn’t all bad exploring the castle—though to be honest that was more to give himself an alibi for knowing his way around the place—or learning and playing Gobstones in the courtyard, but it was time Harry might have spent on more important things, like studying or trying to figure out what the Being was after. But that wasn’t the worst part of it. No, the worst was coming to realise he was little better than the so-called classmates he’d had at St Grogory’s.

On Wednesday, Ron and Seamus had spent the hours between curfew and Astronomy teaching Harry and Dean how to play Exploding Snap in front of the fireplace in their common room. It hadn’t been until they packed the cards away that Harry had realised that none of them, not even Harry, had made any effort to invite Neville to play. Even thinking back, he found he couldn’t remember Neville speaking up much at all, or spending time with the rest of them apart from sharing the same dorm and common room. And that made him remember, with quite some guilt, his earlier resolve to talk to Neville. Sure, it hadn’t even been a week yet, but surely he could have found time for that before now. Especially as Neville seemed to be even more quiet and withdrawn today; Harry wasn’t sure just why, but he’d bet it had something to do with the letter he’d received that morning. Harry had received one as well, a response from Hagrid telling him he’d try not to mention Harry’s pre-September stay at Hogwarts and that he was welcome to come down for tea whenever he liked—perhaps tomorrow, as Hagrid had noticed Harry had Friday afternoons free—and to please bring his friends, too. It had made him smile, but hadn’t stopped him from noticing Neville’s reaction to his.

“…okay, Harry?” Ron’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and then a hand grabbed and shook his shoulder lightly. Harry blinked and looked up at his friend. “I said, are you okay? You haven’t said anything for nearly ten minutes, and you’ve barely touched your food.” He gestured pointedly at Harry’s plate with his fork in a way Harry distinctly remembered his etiquette book telling him _not_ to do.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry nevertheless apologised, picking up his own fork and stabbing his lunch. “I was just thinking about stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Harry smiled a little and shrugged. He wasn’t going to mention his worries about their roommate out here, with everyone else around them probably eavesdropping so hard it was making their ears vibrate. Not to mention Neville himself being at the table. “Magic. Differences between this world and what I’m used to. Why I didn’t think to bring a pencil with me. How we’re expected to find our classrooms without having a map of the school. Just little things like that.” They were things he’d considered over the last few days, so it wasn’t a complete lie.

“Oh!” said Dean across the table. “I brought a few pencils. Could never quite get the hang of that quill, so I figured I’d use them for quick notes until I got used to it. I’ll lend you one if you want.”

Harry grinned at the boy. “That’d be brilliant,” he said. “Thanks!”

Dean immediately leaned over to dig around in his book bag, coming up with a bright yellow mechanical pencil which he held out to Harry.

“I owe you one, Dean,” Harry said, eagerly taking it.

“If I lose my other ones, I’ll want it back though,” Dean warned him, and Harry accepted the condition with a nod.

Ron looked on, obviously more curious than a cat. “What’s that?”

“It’s what I’m used to writing with,” Harry said, holding the pencil to his ear and shaking in an effort to determine how many leads were still inside. He’d never had a mechanical pencil before, though. “Well, the ones I’ve mostly used are wooden, and you need to sharpen them now and then by whittling them to a point with either a sharpener or a knife, so they get shorter and shorter as you use them. This one’s mechanical, so you just press the rubber on top to push the lead out.” He demonstrated, but then frowned. “Err, it’s not really lead, though, but it’s what it’s called.” He pushed the lead back inside with his finger. “Either way, it means you can refill the pencil, and until you run out it’ll always stay sharp.” He grinned triumphantly as he slipped it into his own bag. “More importantly, it’s erasable by rubbing that rubber tip over the text, so it doesn’t matter if you make a mistake while writing.” And suddenly, by explaining it to Ron, he realised that had to be why it was called a rubber, since it had very little in common with things made from rubber.

Ron blinked and stared at him as though he’d been rattling off information about obscure molecules or something. “Huh,” he said. Then he shook himself. “You’ll have to show me later.”

Harry grabbed his fork. “Sure thing,” he said. Even as he started to eat again he noted that once more Neville hadn’t said a word during the discussion, but it wasn’t until Neville stood up from his seat and quietly left the table that he wondered if things were worse than he’d thought. He looked after Neville, taking in the hunch in his shoulders and the way he kept his head bowed, his eyes most likely firmly on the floor, and he felt slightly queasy at the thought that he hadn’t done anything about the situation sooner. And why hadn’t anyone else noticed? Wasn’t that what the Prefects were there for?

He inhaled his food with all the skill of one who’d always been worried his food would be taken away from him, and drank his juice. “Sorry, Ron, I need to go.”

“Wha-?” Ron asked, mouth full. “Why?”

Harry didn’t want to lie, but again he didn’t want to light a giant neon sign over Neville’s issues, whatever they were. At least not until he knew what they were. So with a wince, he decided to lie. “I just need a bit of time to myself. I’ll see you in time for class, alright?”

Ron sighed, but nodded—though not without a glance over his shoulder toward the Slytherin table. “Alright,” he said.

Harry made sure to smile at the others. “I’ll see you later as well,” he said as he stood and picked up his book bag. Getting a few semi-enthusiastic see-you-laters in return, he left the Great Hall in search of Neville. Considering it had been at least a few minutes since Neville had left, he didn’t hold much hope of catching up to him.

There was, naturally, no sign of him in the Entrance Hall, and Harry dithered a couple of seconds on which way to go before resorting to house-elf help again. “Mipsy?” He wondered if he was becoming too reliant on her help, if he should try harder at solving things on his own, but then she was there in front of him and there wasn’t really a point in refusing the assistance she offered.

“Harry Potter wants Mipsy’s help?” she asked.

“I, uhh, I need to find Neville Longbottom. Do you know where he is?”

Mipsy blinked slowly, as if surprised or confused about the request, but then nodded eagerly. “Mipsy knows. He is being by the growing-houses.”

The what-now? But it didn’t take Harry much more than a second or two to figure out she meant the greenhouses, and then he nodded in return. “Thanks, Mipsy,” he said, gave her a smile and then headed off to find Neville.

It took him a fair bit longer than he’d thought it would, though in his defence there were several greenhouses and they weren’t exactly the small ones some Muggles kept in their back gardens. In the end, however, he spotted the chubby boy _outside_ , at the back of Greenhouse Three, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back against the glass wall and his eyes closed against the sun. Harry hesitated, wondering what the best way of approaching Neville would be. Then he took a deep breath and just went for it, casually walking over and dropping down on the ground a few feet away from the other Gryffindor.

He hadn’t been casual enough, it seemed, as Neville froze into stillness. Perhaps, though, there wasn’t even such a thing as ‘casual enough’. After a second, their eyes met, just for a moment, before Neville looked down.

“Sorry, Harry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t realise you wanted to sit here. Want me to leave?”

Harry chose his words more carefully than he’d approached. “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t,” he offered. “Would you prefer to be alone?” He held his breath, only releasing it when Neville shrugged. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was meant to be a ‘no, not really’ or a ‘yes, but I’m not going to protest’, but for now he’d take it as a tentative permission to join him.

He waited to see if Neville would say anything—ask why Harry was there, or comment on classes, or even just a mention of weather—but there was nothing. A glance to the side told him Neville had returned to his previous position, tilting his face up to the sun as though he could soak it in just like a flower. It was almost fascinating, but most of all it was calming, and Harry found himself copying the pose, smiling just a little. Neither of them spoke, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to mind. This wasn’t like when he’d been quiet back in primary. This wasn’t like hiding from Dudley and his friends. This wasn’t even like being awkwardly aware of Neville sitting quietly on the outside while Harry was pulled into group activities by Ron. He couldn’t say what it _was_ like, because he’d never really… His breath caught as he placed the feeling. It was like the companionship he felt with the Being when they just held each other without talking. Oh, nowhere near as strong as that, but a watered version of it. Like a few stolen bites of food compared to a Hogwarts feast. He wasn’t uncomfortable because… because he wasn’t _expected_ to do anything other than sit here. Because he wasn’t expecting _Neville_ to do anything other than sit there. They could just be, and… Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of hanging out most Gryffindors liked, but it was quiet and comfortable in a way Harry had missed. In a way he hadn’t even known he’d missed, because he wasn’t alone like he’d been during August. He was alone _together_ , and… he definitely could get used to that.

Some time later, a buzzing noise intruded on the comfortable silence, and he glanced in Neville’s direction only to see him pick up his wand in his off hand and silence it. It seemed to take Neville a moment to realise Harry was looking at him, but then he flushed. “I… Uh, sorry,” he said. “I set an alarm for… Uh, I mean, i-it’s about the only spell I know how to do, and…” He took a deep breath. “A-anyway, lunch break is almost over. I di-didn’t mean to–”

Harry gave Neville a friendly smile, cutting him off and apparently making him blush. “Good idea,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’d lost track of time completely. You’re good company.” Neville’s blush only intensified. “Come on, then, Neville,” Harry went on, holding out his hand to help the other boy up. “Best get to class before we’re late, yeah?”

Pulling Neville to his feet, they headed for the main building. At first, he tried to keep pace with Neville, but after a minute or two of Neville lagging behind more and more, even when Harry slowed down to match, he got the hint. “I’ll see you in class, then?” he asked, and at Neville’s shy nod picked his pace up again and went to find Ron.

 

*                    _ϟ_                     *

 

It was a quiet group of Gryffindors that ventured down into the dungeons with Harry the next morning. Harry was probably the only one who’d been there before, but he wasn’t going to announce the fact by taking the lead. Instead he made sure to walk somewhere in the middle of the group, following the ones who didn’t know where to go. Not that he was by any means certain where the classroom was either, but it was better not to risk anything.

“Lost, are we?” a voice Harry recognised said as they stood in a junction trying to decide which way to go.

Harry turned around with a smile at Draco, also noting he was accompanied by his two cohorts. “Just a little,” he admitted. “It’s the first time we’re down here, after all, and the note on the timetable wasn’t exactly specific. Mind helping us out?”

“Harry!” Seamus hissed in his ear. “What are you doing?”

Harry turned his head and found himself looking straight into the other boy’s eyes. Thankfully, Seamus straightened up and backed off a little. “I’m asking for directions,” Harry told him calmly. “It’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re unsure of where to go. Draco lives down here, so I’m assuming he has a better idea than we do where the Potions classroom is.”

“Indeed I do,” Draco said. His eyes glittered slightly when Harry turned back to him. “What would you be willing to give in return for the assistance?” His lips twitched ever so slightly as his gaze flickered to the other Gryffindors around Harry.

Of course. Harry hadn’t really expected Draco to offer his help without anything in return. Not when Harry was the one who’d asked. Harry would have asked the same had their positions been reversed. But where Harry would have used it to get them to spend more time together, what was Draco’s angle? He frowned thoughtfully. It was just possible Draco was after that same thing. Well, nothing for it but to try; if it wasn’t, Draco would reject the suggestion. “One hour of my undivided attention?” he offered.

Draco sniffed. “You clearly have an inflated opinion of the value of your attention,” he retorted, but there was no harshness in his voice. “Two hours.”

Well, that wasn’t a rejection. Not entirely. But then again, if Draco was under the same kind of pressure from Housemates as Harry was, he couldn’t very well appear to be too eager to accept Harry’s first offer, could he? Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure if they’d agree that two hours instead of one was an example of good bargaining. But what was Harry supposed to suggest as a counter-offer? And then, remembering something they’d discussed last time they spoke, Harry knew what to offer to sweeten the deal. Quite possibly for both of them. At the very least, it would be interesting to see what Draco would make of it. “One hour,” he reiterated, “but in a location of your choosing.” He ignored the gasps from his year mates. It was only a shame he couldn’t see the looks on their faces.

Draco smirked like the proverbial cat who’d just secured himself a whole bowlful of cream, which drew another gasp from one of the girls somewhere behind Harry. “You have yourself a deal, Potter,” he said, his tone indicating that Harry was the definite loser of that bargain. He walked past them, then looked over his shoulder and crooked his finger. “Come along, then. The Potions lab is this way.”

It really wasn’t far, and Harry groaned when he realised that they’d have come across it on their own if they’d only gone a little bit further. Not that he particularly regretted allowing them the chance to get to know each other better. No, it wasn’t that part that made him flush slightly. It was that Draco had so neatly utilised his lack of familiarity with the dungeons. “Damn it, you set me up, didn’t you?” he shot at Draco, but couldn’t stop his lips from quirking upward in a rueful smile. Of all the sneaky, underhanded… No wonder the Hat hadn’t had a problem Sorting him into Slytherin. He’d bet his new boots that Draco had been _waiting_ there for them to show up, hoping for just such an opportunity. Harry didn’t blame him at all for being so smug; he’d have been the same.

“Ah, but you made it so easy,” Draco said with another of his smirks, before opening the door to the classroom and heading inside, Crabbe and Goyle following him like two guard dogs.

“Are you crazy, Harry?” one of the girls, Lavender, squeaked. “Are you seriously going to go along with Malfoy just like that? Even after he tricked you?”

Harry shrugged and tried to hide his amusement. “A bargain’s a bargain. What’s the worst that can happen?” he asked, leaving his house mates spluttering behind him as he stepped into the classroom. He very carefully didn’t grin at the sound.

The Slytherins were already there, all of them seated on one side of the classroom. Shrugging, Harry went to the second table from the front on the other half and sat himself down. Ron came close behind him and grabbed the other chair by the table. “She was right, you know,” he whispered angrily as he leaned closer. “What were you thinking?”

Harry smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Ron,” he replied just as quietly. “He’s not going to hurt me. I’m suspecting it was just a roundabout way of setting up time for us to talk. He _is_ a Slytherin, after all.” And probably had to keep a low profile to keep his Housemates from getting too suspicious about his intents.

Ron sat up straight, but peered at Harry as though to make sure he was certain. Then he sighed and followed everyone else’s example and took out his Potions textbook. Harry did the same, plus the notebook he’d gotten in Diagon Alley and the pencil he’d borrowed from Dean yesterday. And then he waited for Professor Snape.

They didn’t have to wait long before the door behind them opened, and the scowling Professor stalked between the two rows of tables to the front, his robes swirling around his feet. “Put away your wands,” he ordered, his voice slithering through the room like the snake on the Slytherin banners. And as Snape went on, Harry almost forgot to breathe. He grabbed his pencil and quickly copied down the words.

 _…even stopper death_ , he finished, skipping the part about them potentially being dunderheads. Then he looked up as a shadow fell over the table.

“Mister Potter,” Snape sneered, somehow managing to make the words drawn out and at the same time clipped and distinct. “It seems our new… celebrity cannot even deign to pay attention.” He glanced down at the pencil still in Harry’s hand. “And _what_ is that monstrosity you’re holding?”

“Err, it’s a pencil, Professor. It’s a Mugg–”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what a pencil is, Mr Potter,” Professor Snape interrupted. “What I want to know is what in Salazar’s name it’s doing in your hand.”

Harry swallowed. He knew this was only playacting. Snape had said so, and apologised more than once. But it was still as difficult to face as during that first supper at Hogwarts. “I was taking notes,” he said.

“You were taking notes, _sir_ ,” Snape corrected.

Harry couldn’t help it. The words bubbled up before he could stop them. “There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor,” he informed the man.

Snape’s face darkened. “Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Mr Potter, as well as detention. In my classroom, you will address me with respect and you will use no other writing implement than a quill. Is that quite clear?

Harry winced. So much for his determination not to lose points. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking down at the table. He didn’t mind the detention nearly as much, though. He moved to return the pencil to his bag, but Snape held out his hand.

“I’ll take that.”

Harry froze. “Sir, it’s not mine; I’m only borrowing it. I…” He trailed off when he realised Snape wasn’t going to change his mind. Sighing, he placed the pencil across Snape’s palm. “Yes, sir.” Maybe he could convince Snape to give it back later, when there weren’t so many others watching.

Fingers closing around the suddenly fragile-looking plastic, Snape stalked back to the front of the classroom. Harry looked back over his shoulder at Dean, sitting two rows back, and mouthed, “Sorry!” before leaning over and taking out his quill and inkwell.

When he looked back, Snape hadn’t destroyed the pencil or thrown it away, but only placed it on his own desk before waving his wand at the blackboard. Text appeared—obviously a recipe of some sort—and Harry squinted in an effort to make the text clearer. He couldn’t _wait_ until he got new glasses.

“Boil cure,” Snape stated. “Work in pairs. Get to it.”

Harry struggled to copy down the recipe, but Snape’s handwriting didn’t make it any easier on him. Finally he just gave up and decided to use the one in his text book instead. It took him a little while to find it, but at least it was easier to read. Why Snape didn’t just tell them the page instead of displaying the entire recipe was beyond him.

They got to it, taking turns preparing the ingredients and stirring them into the cauldron at the right time. Harry hadn’t followed a recipe for years, having become used to going on instinct, but he remembered when he was younger and his aunt had forced him to be exact or suffer the consequences. While the general idea of potion making was the same—follow a recipe and get a good result—he wondered if it was even possible to make them on instinct. Like with cooking, there were spices you could add to enhance other flavours. Were there similar ingredients for potions you could add that didn’t do anything on their own but enhanced the properties of the other ingredients and made for an even better result?

He paused in the middle of crushing the necessary snake fangs, realising just why Snape had to have written the recipe up there. Putting down the pestle, he sidestepped to the book lying open between him and Ron and checked the inside of the cover. He swallowed, his heart sinking, as he read the publication date. Hadn’t the book been updated in over thirty years? That was definitely another strike against Hogwarts education, then, and Snape probably had a more modern recipe on the blackboard.

Still, there was nothing to do about it now. Changing recipe mid-cooking made for a potential disaster, and potions—what with the subject sharing some similarities with Chemistry as well—were probably even less likely to turn out well if you did. So he returned to his snake fangs. Maybe it would be sub-par, but hopefully that’d be good enough. Clearly Snape wasn’t expecting much of his side of the classroom anyway, as was evidenced by his comments as he moved around the room. Draco apparently could do nothing wrong, Snape complimenting everything he did. Was it because he really had a talent for Potions, Harry wondered, or was it because Snape knew Mr Malfoy and was trying to stay on his good side?

A low, almost hissing, bubbling sound drew his attention, and he turned around to see Neville’s cauldron slowly melting, a viscous fluid escaping it and spreading out over the table and down on the floor. As one, most of the Gryffindor side were up on their stools, but Neville hadn’t been as lucky, the fluid having splashed all over him as the cauldron collapsed.

“Idiot boy!” Snape snapped, striding over and waving his wand. The mess vanished, but that didn’t stop the boils breaking out all over Neville’s face and hands. Harry winced. They looked quite painful. “Can’t you follow simple instructions? Or did you think it wouldn’t matter whether you added the porcupine quills before or after you took the cauldron off the fire?” He glared at Seamus, Neville’s work partner. “You, take him to the Hospital Wing.”

As Seamus gathered up their bags and the two hobbled off, Snape waved his wand at the mess and it vanished. Then he spun around to direct his scowl at Harry and Ron. Mostly Harry, though. “And you,” he snarled. “Why didn’t you say anything to stop him? Think yourself too good to help your classmates, do you? Did you think that his failure would make your potion look better? One point from Gryffindor, Potter, and this better not happen again.”

Well, that just wasn’t _fair_! Just because they’d been practically next to Neville and Seamus didn’t mean they were responsible! He opened his mouth to say something, but winced and held his tongue when Ron kicked his shin. “Don’t push it, Harry,” Ron whispered after Snape had glared his fill and stalked off with his robes swirling around his feet. “You’ve already got detention with the man. Don’t make it worse.”

So Harry held his tongue as they finished the potion and bottled it. It could, charitably, be said to have the colour and consistency Snape said it ought to have but Harry didn’t think it’d be enough. Snape didn’t, after all, strike him as the kind of teacher who’d be charitable. He felt pathetic and miserable as he placed the phial on Snape’s desk, something he hadn’t felt in _years_ over something he’d cooked.

Snape didn’t even look up at him. “My office at seven, Potter,” was all he said. He made no offer to return the pencil, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to, either. With a bit of hope he’d be able to get it back during detention—he had a feeling Snape might be more amenable to that in private—but if he couldn’t, he’d simply have to see about getting Dean a replacement.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied and went back to the table to help Ron clean up. He left Ron to package the remaining ingredients and carried cauldron and knife over to one of the available sinks by the wall, remembering the bit at the start of the textbook about how tools were best cleaned without magic, to prevent it from interfering with the next brewing. It took him a little while to figure out that the ceramic jar next to the tap contained soap of some kind, but after that he washed up quickly and efficiently. Halfway through, Ron showed up with the other tools that needed washing, but as every sink was at that time taken Harry just gestured for Ron to put them down.

“You sure?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve already got my hands wet and pruned. Might as well do the rest. You can dry them off, though, if you like.” He rather doubted they were expected—or even allowed—to leave their stuff to dry on its own in the classroom.

“Yeah, alright,” Ron agreed with a hint of relief in his voice, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he didn’t like Harry doing all the work or because this way he ended up with the easier of the two tasks. Either way, Harry wasn’t about to complain. Any help was better than none, which is what he’d had at the Dursleys’ and what he’d probably get if he’d agreed to be sorted into Slytherin. Perhaps being a Gryffindor wasn’t so bad, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to regret my decision to use chapter names xD Is it too late to go back and remove them all? :3
> 
> And some missed statistics for AutumnWolf90, just because:  
> 9 - 30/5/18 - 57,533  
> 8 - 26/5/18 - 49,998  
> 7 - 21/5/18 - 42,825  
> 6 - 18/5/18 - 36,792


	15. Private Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, and I know I haven't even replied to comments lately. And I'd like to explain. I did consider posting a "fake" chapter for it, but I don't really like those myself so in the end I just opted for a quick comment in the fic summary until I could get around to finish the chapter I was working on.
> 
> At the end of January last year, my best friend (my flatmate of more than twelve years and sister in all but blood) lost her fight against cancer. It didn't really hit me until summer, though, and since then I've been hovering somewhere just above the edge of depression. Together with needing to rework my timeline a bit for this and changing some vital plot points (which I'm not regretting, as it can only make it better) it became a bit of a stumbling block in that I didn't have the energy to focus on it properly. Plus the smut bunny that popped up was a lot easier to hang out with—what can I say? I'm a guy, and have a secondary brain to think with when the one up top refuses to work with me :p
> 
> I struggled a lot with one scene in this chapter, and I think I re-wrote the beginning of it at least three times before I decided to just skip it and allude to what happened during it. Once I did that, things started flowing better, and... well, we all know what happens during that scene anyway, and the differences that my Harry's more active Slytherin side would have brought into it didn't seem vital enough to force a scene that didn't want to happen.
> 
> That said, I _think_ I'm back on track, at least enough to start posting again. I can't promise that I won't break down again, but I'll try to tell you guys sooner if I do instead of just leaving you hanging for half a year or so. Anyway, without further ado, I give you chapter 15.

_…in which Harry is fascinated by the power of runes, reads a private letter, and tries to look at things from new perspectives._

 

They made it out of the potions lab without further incident, and headed up to the Great Hall for lunch. Harry’s hands were cleaner than they’d been in a long while, which was the one thing he missed the most about washing up. Quite possibly the only thing he missed about it.

“I can’t believe you said that to Snape,” Ron hissed at him quietly. “I mean, I can’t say I’m not impressed, but what in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”

Harry flushed. “I… uh… I didn’t. It just popped out.” He sighed. “In retrospect, I probably should have bit my tongue. Sorry. Didn’t mean to lose us points.”

“Never mind the points,” Ron said. “Sure, it’s not that I don’t want us to win the House Cup, but that’s not the point.”

“I’ve heard Snape has it out for us Gryffindors anyway,” someone said behind them, and Harry turned his head to see the Indian girl, Parvati, heft her bag up higher on her shoulder. “I was talking to Katie Bell, in second year, and she mentioned that there’s not been a single class where Snape didn’t take points from Gryffindor in some way. If you ask me, it’s probably an exaggeration, but there has to be something to it, no?”

Harry gave her a small smile. “Thanks.”

At first, there was no sentiment behind the word except gratitude that she’d gone to the effort to comfort him—and that her comment seemed to stop or at least distract Ron from arguing further—but as he thought about it on their way to the Great Hall, he slowly came to the conclusion that she had a point. He paused in the Entrance Hall to gaze up at the hourglasses indicating the House standings. Despite the fact it was still the first week, there were plenty of gems resting in the bottom halves, enough that no one could be expected to accuse him of ruining Gryffindor’s chances of winning. In fact, even as he stood there five yellow gems floated up to rejoin the top half, a Hufflepuff somewhere in Hogwarts being penalised for some sort of mistake.

It was with a lighter heart Harry hurried to catch up with Ron, impatiently waiting by the door, and they went to find their seats for lunch. A few people gave him encouraging smiles—Harry wasn’t sure if they’d heard what happened or if they were just trying to be friendly with him because he was Harry Potter—but mostly he was left in peace. He did wonder if Draco would come up to him during the meal so they could agree on a time to meet, but nothing of the sort happened. Then again, Draco probably didn’t have the entire afternoon off, so he might be waiting until he could get his full hour’s worth right away. And, Harry mused, not give the other Gryffindors a chance to nag the truth from Harry.

So Harry turned to Ron, who was finishing up the last bites on his plate. “I was going to go by Hagrid for a bit. Want to come with?”

Ron looked up at him. “Huh?” he asked indistinctly, before swallowing down the bite in his mouth. “Oh, um, sure. Right now?”

Harry chuckled. “You can finish eating, I’m sure.” Hagrid was probably eating as well, after all, though now that the term had begun he was no longer eating with the rest of the staff. Some sort of social boundary or other because he wasn’t an actual professor but ‘only’ the groundskeeper.

“Oh, goodie,” Ron said with a sigh of relief, and immediately stuffed his mouth full of food again. Harry watched him for a moment or two, wondering just how someone could eat as much as Dudley without looking like it. Then he frowned thoughtfully as he grabbed a couple of crisp veggies from a salad bowl to chew on while Ron finished up. Actually, now that he thought about it… if he’d been invited for tea, going straight after lunch might not be the best idea. And Ron would probably appreciate a game or two of cards to let the food settle.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

Almost two hours later, Harry’s brain was buzzing with possibilities and theories as he stepped out of Hagrid’s hut. He almost didn’t even remember to wave and smile at the friendly giant of a man. He hadn’t managed to get anything concrete out of him, but… the hints and evasions spoke a language of their own.

Chewing thoughtfully on his lip, he walked next to Ron, who glanced curiously at him but seemed to understand on some level that Harry needed to sort things out before talking was on the table.

Why would Hagrid have that article, if it wasn’t important to him for some reason? Did his errand that very same day have something to do with it? Assuming he’d been there to get something—which Harry had guessed earlier and Hagrid hadn’t exactly denied… What had it been? Was it something important enough that it required a vault of its own? The vault that had been broken into had been _emptied_ , after all, and while Harry cynically guessed that Hagrid could fit two or more children into his pockets, he doubted he’d filled them with whatever he’d gone to fetch for Dumbledore. Sure, shrinking charms could do a lot, but from what he’d heard, Hagrid didn’t have a wand.

His heart lurched and he almost stumbled on a tuft of grass. Was… Was this what the Being was after? The thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell Harry about? Maybe even something that would help him regain his body?

“You alright, Harry?” Ron asked, reaching out to steady him.

Swallowing, Harry nodded and forced a smile at Ron. No, surely not. That would make this whole thing a conspiracy, wouldn’t it? It was enough of a suspicious coincidence that the Being was real and that they both ended up in the same place. It was enough of one that the Being might have had something to do with the war that killed Harry’s parents.

“So what do you think?” he asked Ron.

“Uh, about what?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. Really? “That article. Why do you think Hagrid saved it?”

“Uhh… You said you met Hagrid at Gringotts that day, didn’t you? Maybe he just thought it a scary coincidence?”

Another coincidence? “I don’t know,” he said slowly, gazing up at the castle and sighing. “Maybe. But… He definitely didn’t want to talk about it. It just makes me suspicious, you know.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Malfoy too much, Harry. Not everything’s a Slytherin plot.”

Harry shrugged. Not everything _wasn’t_ , either. “It just doesn’t add up.” Just like the thing with Harry’s Godfather. “But… maybe you’re right.” Not in the way Ron was thinking though. No, Harry was thinking that maybe a Slytherin mindset was _needed_ to figure this whole thing out. Maybe he’d see if Draco had some insight into the matter. He just needed to figure out how to ask without revealing anything about his dreams or the Being.

Ron didn’t answer at first. When Harry glanced his way, he could see a deep frown between Ron’s eyebrows, and he mentally rolled his eyes. Was Ron sulking about Harry hanging out with Draco again? Well, if he was, that was _Ron’s_ problem. Not Harry’s.

“Harry?” Ron finally said, stopping right before the steps leading up to the main entrance to the school. Steeling himself for a possible argument, Harry turned to look at him. “Look, I…” Ron licked his lips, clearly nervous. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s hiding something. But why?”

Harry blinked. That… wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “I don’t know,” he said. “But whatever his errand for Dumbledore was, it was clearly something secret. Professor McGonagall told him to not even mention the errand in public. And _if_ whatever he went to get came from the vault that was broken into, then clearly someone else wants it, too.” He just wished he had any idea about what it might be.

Ron nodded slowly. “Alright. I guess that makes sense.” He paused for a moment, then gave Harry a smile. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out, though. I mean… Sure, we’re just kids, but there’s two of us…” He winced. “Three, if you count Malfoy, I suppose. And Hagrid… Well, no offence, but he’s not exactly clever, is he?”

Harry grinned back, and refused to let himself remember that it wasn’t only Hagrid they had to contend with, and that McGonagall and Dumbledore were something completely different. A chain was only as strong as its weakest link, after all, and if they could get Hagrid to spill the beans… “Yeah,” he agreed. And maybe, just maybe, having a mystery to solve together would help Ron and Draco get over their animosity faster. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, the three of us.”

Ron’s smile faltered just a little, but he nodded. “Right.”

They stepped inside, and came to a halt, blinking slightly at the three Slytherins standing before them.

“You owe me, Potter,” Draco stated, with just a tiny hint of that holier-than-thou snooty tone to his voice. His hands on his hips lent him that last inch of expectancy and arrogance to complete the image. The spark in his eyes spoke of something else, though. Eagerness, playfulness. Barely restrained laughter.

Harry had to restrain his own as well, his surprise melting into a mixture of relief and anticipation. Instead of laughing, however, he slowly looked Draco up and down, forcing his mouth into a straighter line. “Maybe I do, Malfoy,” he retorted. “What of it?” Next to him, Ron seemed torn between worry and anger, and Harry grabbed his arm, squeezing it in a gesture he hoped came across as comforting. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly, wishing he had time or privacy enough to explain more fully, tell Ron what he thought Draco was doing and why he was playing along.

“Well, I’m calling that favour in now. One hour at my mercy.”

How long had Draco been waiting in here? Or had he had Crabbe or Goyle keep an eye out and come get him when Harry was seen coming back to the main building? Then again, he also knew Mipsy’s name now—if he’d bothered to make note of it when Harry called her—and might have thought to ask her to assist. Maybe.

Harry didn’t have time to respond to Draco’s claim before Ron took half a step forward. “If you do anything to him, you’ll have to answer to me, Malfoy,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

Draco just smiled. “Don’t worry your ginger head about it, Weasley.” His gaze shifted to Harry. “Unless you’re saying you’re not _brave_ enough to handle your part of the deal, Potter?”

Harry snorted. “I can handle anything you throw at me, Malfoy.” Mostly because part of him trusted Draco not to throw anything at him he wouldn’t be able to handle. “It’s okay, Ron,” he reiterated.

Ron looked over at him, and Harry nodded. After several seconds, Ron nodded back, before turning back to Draco. Stepping even closer, he set one finger to Draco’s chest. “I don’t trust you, Malfoy. I’ll be keeping my eyes on you.” He turned on his heel. “I’d better see you later, Harry,” he said, and headed for the stairwell.

Draco’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Well, now that your guard dog is out of the way… There’s a cell down in the dungeons with your name on it.”

Harry snorted, not entirely unaware of the faces watching them through the various doorways. “Is that supposed to scare me? You’ll have to try a lot harder to manage that.”

The grin on Draco’s face seemed almost too real to be faked, but then again it wouldn’t exactly surprise Harry if Draco enjoyed this kind of verbal sparring. In all fairness, it _was_ rather amusing. “Oh, I’m looking forward to challenging that claim, Potter,” he taunted, before stepping aside and gesturing to the stairs leading down to the dungeon levels. Harry tried not to smile at Crabbe and Goyle’s shuffling to try to maintain formation. “After you,” he said mockingly. “Please do attempt to run from us. I’d love to see you try to explain _that_ particular act of bravery.”

Again, Harry snorted, and only tossed his hair back as he headed for the stairs. As if he’d run. Behind him he could hear the whispering starting up as he set his foot on the first step. He had to admit that it was rather amusing. It’d serve the idiots right for refusing to accept that a Slytherin could be nice… or that they could have a sense of humour. As if worried, he glanced back over his shoulder, and almost broke down into laughter at the looks on the eavesdroppers’ faces as they stared. _Well, that’ll teach them not to eavesdrop, won’t it?_

Draco and his cohorts walked behind Harry for close to a minute, providing him with quiet verbal commands when he needed to turn a corner, before Harry heard steps hastening and the blond boy came into view next to him. Harry looked sideways at him. “Was it as satisfying as you’d hoped it’d be?” he asked quietly, just in case Draco was trying to keep their budding friendship from Crabbe and Goyle.

“Not entirely,” Draco admitted casually. “I’d have liked more horror and outrage, really. Ah well, I have seven years to perfect it.”

Harry snorted. “And in those seven years you expect people to still be horrified at us talking to each other?”

“I expect people to be idiots, mainly. Really, you’d _think_ they’d get the hint at my courteous invitation to a conversation the other day, but no. Especially not that ginger would-be protector of yours.”

Maybe it was just his imagination and guilt, but there seemed to be a slight hint of accusation in Draco’s otherwise casual comment. Harry winced. Draco hadn’t exactly been there for the conversation he’d had with Ron before going inside, and without having heard that grudging acceptance in his tone then, those comments he’d made in the Entrance Hall must have sounded a lot worse than they’d probably been meant. “He’s… a work-in-progress,” he allowed. “He’s slowly starting to come around, and I’m sure he’ll get there eventually. But that’s one of the things I’d like to discuss with you, actually. What’s with the bodyguards?”

If Draco was thrown by the quick change of subject, he didn’t show it. “It’s a business transaction, mainly,” he commented. “I’m willing to provide them with the influence they need after graduating, as well as some assistance with their school work, and they provide me with a show of loyalty and muscle when I need it.”

That actually made more sense than them being Draco’s friends. Especially as he still hadn’t heard them say a single word. He looked back over his shoulder at them. “Nice to meet you, again,” he offered. One of them—Goyle?—blinked in what seemed like surprise at being addressed, but none of them said anything in response. Draco, however, did.

“Now, now, Potter. You did promise me your _undivided_ attention.”

Harry chuckled, but obediently stopped looking at Crabbe and Goyle. “Not too clever to look back while walking, anyway,” he joked. “Only gives you opportunities to lead me straight into a wall.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Draco smirked at him. “Please, do continue to gaze at our companions.”

“Very funny. Are you going to stick with just my surname, or are you going to be reasonable?”

Draco just smiled at him, leading Harry to believe that it was, indeed, Crabbe and Goyle that made him act that way.

“So… If you expect my undivided attention before we’ve even reached that ‘cell with my name on it’ you promised me,” Harry said slowly. “Am I to assume the hour has already started?” He looked innocently at Draco, barely holding in a giggle as the Slytherin nearly stumbled over a dust mote.

It took Draco a few seconds to respond. “Only if you’ll let me pause the timer whenever you fail to give it,” he sniped back.

He had to admit it was a clever solution. And it’d give him an excuse in case their conversation ended up making them forget about the time. “You do know at least Ron will be expecting me back upstairs in an hour,” he argued without actually giving an answer to the proposal.

Draco just smirked and shrugged. “So don’t get distracted,” he said, and Harry had to cough to disguise his near-laughter.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

They continued through the dungeons for a while longer, and though Harry tried to keep track of the twists and turns he soon lost all sense of where he was, especially now that he didn’t have the verbal clues to focus on to remember them. It was a good thing he had Draco with him to… Wait a minute.

“Are you just leading me somewhere on random, Malfoy, or are you telling me you know your way around the dungeons after only a few days?”

Draco laughed at that. “Unlike you, I’ve actually been here at Hogwarts before. I did tell you Father knows Professor Snape, didn’t I?”

Harry sighed, remembering the never-ending praise during class. “You did, and it also looks like you were correct in assuming Potions would be easier for you because of it.”

“Oh, no, that’s not the reason. Well, not the entire reason, at least. I simply have advance knowledge of what he appreciates and not.” Did he? Or did he have advance knowledge of what certain people _expected_ Professor Snape to appreciate? “In any case, while my father visited with the Professor, I used to explore the dungeons. Accompanied by a house-elf to keep me out of danger and make sure I found my way back in time, naturally. I discovered a few fascinating places that way.”

Well, that made a certain amount of sense. Harry nodded, relieved to know they weren’t both lost.

A minute later, Draco swayed to the side and headed for a nondescript door. Curious, yet cautious, Harry held back for a few seconds, but followed Draco into the room when he opened the door and vanished inside.

The room was not what he’d expected, just like Professor Snape’s quarters hadn’t been what he’d expected either. It was comfortably furnished with an antique-looking chesterfield and a second, far plusher sofa facing each other over a dainty, dark mahogany table. A lush, moss-coloured rug covered half the floor, and old but colourful tapestries decorated the walls. One brazier in each corner had burst into flame at their entry and warmth quickly overtook the slight chill in the room. Just next to the door there was another table and a pair of armchairs that vaguely matched the chesterfield.

“Well, go on,” Draco said when Harry just stood there and looked around the room. “Have a seat.”

Harry slowly wandered over to the seating area, followed by Draco just a few steps behind. “Did you put this together?” he had to ask.

“Merlin, no,” Draco said with a half-chuckle. “I think it’s been like this for at least twenty years or so, just with some minor updates and improvements over the years. Maybe even longer. It’s sometimes used for study groups or for private conversations.”

“I see,” Harry said, though he didn’t entirely see. The door closed almost silently, with just a faint click of the latch. Looking back over his shoulder, he found both Crabbe and Goyle standing inside the door, and suddenly he felt a bit nervous. If Draco had been trying to fool him into thinking he was friendly, like Ron still seemed to be convinced of, this would be the perfect opportunity for them to prove just how badly they _could_ scare him. He’d be damned if he showed them that, however. “I thought you said you wanted my undivided attention,” he commented. The sofa looked more comfortable, so he flopped down in it, affecting a highly casual attitude.

For a second, Draco only looked at him, his expression neutral. Then, with a quick dart of his eyes toward the door, he smiled. “Oh, don’t bother with them. I would have left them outside, but not only would it be incredibly uncomfortable and boring for them, but they’ve already refused. They take their side of the bargain very seriously, you know, and apparently it would be remiss of them to leave me alone in a room with a Gryffindor.”

Harry blinked. All of a sudden, Draco wasn’t acting the same way he had before. Oh, his expression seemed fairly similar, but the way he was talking… He glanced over at the other two boys, one of whom was now leaning back against the wall looking bored, while the other was by the table, for some reason peering at the side of it. Then the reason became obvious as he pulled out some sort of drawer and started to rummage around in it.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, I would like your undivided attention. Please.”

“Oh, sorry.” Harry didn’t quite take his eyes off Draco’s bodyguards, but turned to face Draco a little bit more head on. “It’s just… Do you want them to hear everything we talk about?”

That made Draco laugh, and Harry couldn’t understand what was so funny. “Look at the floor.” He gestured lazily in the direction of the door. Harry squinted, and could just about make out some kind of irregularity. “Go stand on the other side of that line, just for a little while.”

Confused and slightly irritated, Harry stood up again and walked toward the door. When he came closer, he did see a darker line on the floor. A groove, slightly curved in a bow with the seating area on the inside of the arc. A couple of weird-looking symbols evenly spaced along the line. He stepped across it and turned to Draco again. “Now what?” he asked.

And then things got really odd. He could vaguely see Draco’s mouth moving, but all he could hear was a buzzing sound in his ears, as though a cloud of wasps was circling around him. He opened his mouth in a forced half-yawn intended to pop his ears, but it made no difference. Even trying to focus on the lip movement made no difference; it was as if there was a faint blur or distortion, beyond what the distance would normally cause. After a little while Draco beckoned him closer, and he somewhat reluctantly obeyed.

“So as you can see they won’t hear a thing from our side, but we’re able to hear anything they say or do,” the Slytherin said with a satisfied smirk. “I have no idea who made that sound barrier, but it really is brilliant, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded, unwilling to lie about it. “Slightly disconcerting, too.” He returned to the sofa and Draco sat down opposite him. “Was there something in particular you wanted, or did you just feel like hanging out?” He also needed to discuss Ron, but he wasn’t that keen on bringing it up just now. Maybe in a bit.

Draco reached into his quite posh leather book bag and pulled out a scroll. “I wrote my father last night. I wanted to let you read it before I send it off, just to make sure I’m not saying something you’d rather I kept from him.” He set it on the table between them.

That had not been what Harry had expected at all. He looked at the rolled-up parchment for a few seconds, then up at Draco. “Are you sure?” he asked. Did Draco really want him to read a letter to his dad? Surely that was something private!

“Very.” Draco gave him a small smile, but then gestured somewhat impatiently at the letter. “Well, read it and tell me what you think.”

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in an almost explosive sigh, Harry leaned forward and unfurled it on the table, holding it open. He was instantly jealous of Draco’s handwriting. Then again, while it looked pretty it wasn’t very easy to read, and he had to lean in even closer.

 

     _To the Lord my father, greetings._  
  
_Thank you for the suggestions you gave me. I have already begun to cultivate acquaintances with a couple of those individuals who may end up with sufficient influence in the future. Some of them will be quite difficult to reach an understanding with due to Sorting into different Houses, of course. I have, to give an example, managed to reach a tentative working agreement with Miss Padma Patil, a Ravenclaw, but her twin may be a lost cause, having Sorted into Gryffindor. I hope Miss Padma is the stronger of the two and may influence her sister into cordiality, rather than the opposite._  
  
_As I told you in my previous letter, I was worried that Potter’s agreement to remain at least neutral might have faded once he predictably ended up in Gryffindor, but I may have been a bit hasty in saying so. To my surprise he approached me the very next morning and offered me congratulations on my Sorting. We’ve since had a quite interesting conversation in the library, where I managed to foster his willingness to associate with me. He has, of course, the bleeding heart so many of them do, and insists that I keep a civil tongue regarding certain uninvited individuals in our society. For now, I have agreed to try, and he seems content with that. While raised with Muggles, he shows a far keener interest in our society than many others in the same situation, and he didn’t even need my suggestion to seek instruction in deportment and civility. He also showed interest when I mentioned the true wizarding holidays. I believe that with a little bit of time and careful manipulation, he may be turned from the side of the fools and come to agree with our more traditional views. I would appreciate your continued advice in this matter, Father, in order to prevent my inexperience from ruining what might be the opportunity of a lifetime._  
  
_Vincent and Gregory take the agreement between our families quite seriously, and Gregory has already stepped in the path of a malicious hex directed my way—while I was writing the first draft of this letter, as a matter of fact! Fortunately Professor Snape was nearby, and solved the resulting predicament without a need to visit the Hospital Wing. I fully intend to deal with the culprit, who has already earned herself detention for her attempt. Unlike her, I intend not to get caught._  
  
_Please give my love to Mother, and tell her I think of her. I very much appreciated the care package she sent this afternoon—though by the time you get this, I expect it will be yesterday as it is already after curfew and I will have no way of sending my letter off until tomorrow._  
  
_I remain, as always,  
            Your devoted son,  
                  Draco_

  

After finishing the letter, Harry felt awkward. Surely, _surely_ that had to have been private conversation that he’d just been invited to take part of. Only a small portion—well, about half of it, if he were honest—related to him, and the rest seemed so… revealing, somehow. He also wasn’t entirely comfortable with how it so openly spoke about manipulating people into becoming Draco’s ‘associates’. He glanced up at Draco a little hesitantly.

“It’s a bit formal, I know,” Draco said, apparently misconstruing his reaction. “Father is very strict and proper when it comes to things like that.” He hesitated for a moment. “Is it acceptable? I apologise for putting things in a very…” He paused, obviously trying to find the right words, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle a little. This Draco was so completely different from the one who’d escorted him here that it was hard to reconcile the two, and the apology, while unfinished, helped ease his worries about the contents of the letter.

“It’s fine, though I hope you don’t _really_ think that way about me. I understand needing to put up a… a mask, of sorts.”

Draco let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you. I mean, of course you understand, given your Sorting, but…”

Harry narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Is that why you’re so different? Because this is a private and relatively safe place?”

There was a small, almost rueful laugh from Draco. “There are very few places I can relax, yes. I was raised to understand that there’s always someone watching, waiting for you to make a mistake that they can take advantage of. That I need to do the same in order to survive and come out ahead.”

“Wow. No wonder you Sorted into Slytherin so quickly with that outlook on life.” Harry felt his cheeks heat. He hadn’t really intended to say that, but the words had just slipped out. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re hardly one to talk,” Draco shot back, though he sounded slightly more amused than offended. “Arguing to be Sorted into the wrong House just to misdirect people. And Weasley says that _I’m_ using trickery to get my way.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Err, about that…” He sighed. “First of all, the letter looks fine to me. You’re the one who knows your dad and how he’d react, so I’m going to do an incredibly naïve thing and trust your judgement.” He released it to let it roll up loosely on its own, before pushing it closer to Draco. “Thank you for letting me read it, for giving me a look into your thoughts. I’m sure it wasn’t as easy for you as you made it seem.”

Draco looked a little uncomfortable, but unfortunately neither protested nor confirmed the statement. Shame. A discussion about that would have delayed the next topic.

With no further valid procrastination, Harry threw himself into it. “Ron is being… stubborn. I’m sorry. I’m working on getting him to calm down and think, and he’s getting better at it, but he’s still sometimes running on pure emotion and ingrained prejudice, just like how you in your letter presumed Parvati would be next to impossible to befriend just because she’s a Gryffindor.” Draco drew breath to speak, but whether it was to protest or offer excuses, Harry shook his head. “I know, Draco,” he said. “I’ve only been in this world for a short while, but I know the tension between our two Houses is a lot more volatile than between any other combination. I’m just not sure _why_ yet.”

Draco shrugged. “We’re polar opposites.”

That made Harry frown a little. “Are they?” he asked, opting for that pronoun in an attempt to focus on the Houses rather than their members. “If anything, I’d have placed Hufflepuff as Slytherin’s opposite. Look at the stereotypes: Slytherins like to take the credit for things they didn’t do—as long as they’re positive things, of course—and Hufflepuffs take pride in the _doing_ of things and don’t really care who gets the credit.”

Draco just blinked a few times, as if Harry had just said the sky was purple and the sun was green. Then he shook his head, more to clear it than in denial. “That’s not really an opposite, though,” he said. “That’s what Father likes to call a ‘symbiotic relationship’. Every leader must have followers, and Hufflepuffs are loyal and hard-working.”

Harry shuddered as his imagination immediately tried to fit the Dursleys into that image. No, that situation had been anything _but_ symbiotic.

“Ravenclaw,” Draco went on, “appreciates intelligence, and so does Slytherin. We apply it differently, of course—for a Ravenclaw, it’s the _knowledge_ that’s important, and for a Slytherin it’s what you _do_ with it that matters—but it still gives us common ground. But Gryffindor? They’re straight-forward and foolhardy, and often wear their emotions on their sleeve. For most Slytherins, that’s an open invitation to take advantage of them. And the Gryffindors can’t understand how someone could do that. There’s no common ground, no…” He waved his hand slightly. “No symbiosis. Both Gryffindors and Slytherins want to lead and make the decisions, but they do so in such opposite manners that it’s next to impossible to work together.”

“And then there’s people like me,” Harry said softly.

Draco nodded. “Chameleons. Wearing masks comes naturally to them, and the skilled ones shift fluidly between them without anyone realising what’s going on—at least not until it’s far too late. Some chameleons are so successful that they could have fit into any one of the four Houses, and no one would be able to say they didn’t belong there.”

Harry swallowed, recalling how every Head of House except Sprout had said he’d do well in their House. And as for Sprout… Well, she might have as well if he’d spent more time around her. For all he knew, she could have said it already when he just wasn’t there to hear it. _If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?_ “Where did you learn all this?” It didn’t sound like something Draco had figured out on his own. It sure wasn’t anything _Harry_ would have thought about, though it did make an awful lot of sense now that it was in the air between them. “Your father?” He had said his _father_ called Slytherin-Hufflepuff symbiotic.

Draco snorted softly. “From Mother, actually. My tutor at the time didn’t manage to explain to my satisfaction the question you asked me: Why Gryffindors are our natural enemies–” He held up a hand to forestall Harry’s interruption. “It was how my tutor put it, and how Father always seemed to treat it, and there was never any doubt in my family that I _would_ end up in Slytherin. Still, I was frustrated over being told that it was how it’d always been, because they were all reckless fools who held no loyalty to their families or upbringing. When I asked Mother, she told me they were wrong.”

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “No loyalty to family? Try to tell that to Ron, or any of his brothers.”

For a few seconds, Draco joined him in appreciation of what a disaster that would be, but then he calmed down and shrugged. “I think that comment was more based in personal experiences than anything else. Mother mentioned a cousin of hers who got Sorted into Gryffindor instead of the expected Slytherin, and he ended up running away from home and getting himself disinherited and struck from the family tree. But she’d obviously known him before he came to Hogwarts, and had seen the signs there already.”

Harry frowned. “But if the signs were there, why did they expect him in Slytherin?”

“Wilful ignorance?” Draco asked with a shrug. “I don’t know.”

Harry nodded though, once more resorting to the Dursleys to understand it. In a way, it was just how Vernon and Petunia refused to see how much of a bully their son was at school, usually by blaming Harry instead. They didn’t _want_ to believe it, because it would mean something was wrong with their family. They wouldn’t be _normal_.

“It makes sense, though,” he said, going back to Draco’s explanation of the House interactions. “Well, it makes sense from the Slytherin point of view. I’m not sure yet how to explain the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw and Gryffindor-Hufflepuff correlations, though.” What did Gryffindor have in common with those two Houses? Why did Hermione Granger end up in Gryffindor when she from all appearances ought to have ended up in Ravenclaw, with her appreciation for books and knowledge? Where was the overlap?

“I wouldn’t even have a clue where to begin,” Draco admitted. “I can’t think like a Gryffindor at all.”

Harry waved it away. “I’ll probably figure it out sooner or later. I’ll just have to keep my eyes and ears open for what the others say about it.”

“Both when people know others are listening and when they think no one is,” Draco added, smirking when Harry nodded in agreement.

“Still…” Harry said slowly. “I’m planning to… disrupt the current relationships. I’m not sure how much it’ll affect Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but I’m definitely working on improving relations between Gryffindor and Slytherin.” He flashed a brief grin. “One snake at a time.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “And one lion at a time.”

Harry blinked, but then nodded back. “Just so. First me. Then Ron. If I can convince a _Weasley_ ,” he deliberately used the same sneering tone Draco had used back on the train, “to act friendly around Slytherins, even if it’s just you to begin with—and your bodyguards—what can’t I convince the rest of?”

That seemed to either startle or amuse Draco enough to draw a brief laugh from him, but his expression quickly turned thoughtful again. “It’s worth a try,” he said after a few seconds. “Let me make some inquiries. I feel confident I can work on Selwyn to agree to let you sit with us at some meal times, if I cite the possibility of getting the Boy Who Lived to promote friendly relations with the Slytherin House as a whole. We might have to settle for that, at the moment, though. We only seem to be sharing Potions classes, unfortunately, and I doubt Professor Snape would like to see inter-House work pairs.” He trailed off, obviously thinking the matter through.

“You don’t think Professor Snape would fall for the same explanation?” Harry asked, grinning slightly at the thought despite the knot in his stomach whenever he thought about the way Snape treated him when they weren’t alone.

Draco fixed his eyes on him, one of his eyebrows going up again. “You’ve met him. Does he strike you as someone who’d fall for manipulation? Or who’d shrug and let it go if he found out about it?”

Harry pulled a face at that. “Not really, no. And he seems to really dislike me, for some reason. I mean, when Neville had that accident, he immediately turned around and blamed me for it.” He’d ask Snape about it during detention later tonight, provided they were alone. In the mean time, it was just as well to spread the misinformation that Snape disliked him in particular. It’d get back to those who needed to hear that sort of thing about the Professor, which would in turn help keep him safe.

“I noticed. I thought about asking him if I could have your… Muggle thing, just so I could give it back to you later without him knowing about it, but considering I was seen in public to be less than hostile toward you so recently I didn’t want to risk it. I’m sorry.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll see if I can possibly convince him to give it back to me tonight. Maybe I’ll promise to volunteer for another detention or something, or that he’ll never see it in his classroom again. Or both. If not, I’ll just have to figure out a way to get a new one. I’d borrowed it from Dean, so I have to pay him back in some way if I can’t convince Professor Snape.”

Draco pursed his lips, and his eyebrow went up again. “Well, good luck with that. I have a feeling you’ll need it, no matter how much of a Slytherin you are at heart. If you don’t succeed, I suggest talking to some of the sixth- and seventh-year Gryffindors, especially if you know one who has Muggle connections. If they’re seventeen and knows how to Apparate, you might be able to convince one of them to pop by a Muggle place and get one for you during a Hogsmeade weekend.”

Harry blinked. “During a what? I mean, I get what the words imply, but I’m unfamiliar with the concept.”

“Oh, a few times per semester, third-years and up are allowed to visit Hogsmeade, provided they have their parents’ signed permission. Father’s mentioned it briefly a few times, and has also taken advantage of those in the past to visit Professor Snape when there aren’t as many people around.”

It was rather amazing, the number of things Draco knew about Hogwarts thanks to his father. Had Harry’s dad been alive, would he have known similar things? Perhaps like Draco he’d had come with his own father, visiting McGonagall or someone else, and been given free rein to wander around the castle. His heart ached at the missed opportunities, just as it had over the missed hugs and kisses and bedtime stories and all the other things that Dudley was given from his parents. Well, at least he had the Being, and he’d been given plenty of mental embraces there. It might not be quite the same, but it was enough to tide him over until they could get a body for him.

Draco put the letter down on the chesterfield next to him, and as Harry’s attention was drawn by the movement he remembered something else that had been written in there. “Did you really get hexed by someone?”

Draco chuckled, but threw a glance toward his two bodyguards. Harry looked as well, and found them both sitting at the small table, playing cards of some sort. “A fourth-year, yes. She took offence by your appearance at breakfast and my later offer of a peaceful conversation.”

Harry scowled. “That’s none of her business,” he muttered.

“Oh, certainly. Of course, since it happened inside Slytherin territory and was solved without a visit to the Hospital Wing, that’s also where information should stay. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else about it.”

“I promise.” He hesitated. “Will you tell me more about it? Gregory, was it? Is he okay?” He had no idea which of Crabbe or Goyle that was, or he’d have used that, and he hoped Draco wouldn’t be upset by the informal way he was forced to ask about it.

It didn’t seem so, as he just shrugged. “He’s fine now. It wasn’t anything lethal, and Snape fixed him up as good as new. I simply need to find some good way to get back at Travers without getting caught.”

Harry hesitated. He did know of someone—or two someones, to be exact—who knew a lot about pranks. At least judging by the stories Ron had told him. “Umm,” he said tentatively. “Please tell me if I’m overstepping some unspoken rule or something, but Ron told me his brothers, the twins, are always pulling pranks on the family. If you want me to, I could discreetly ask if they have any ideas.”

Several expressions flashed across Draco’s face, but they were too subtle and fleeting for Harry to distinguish and identify. He missed being able to sense the underlying emotions, the way he did with the Being and the Host; he was far more deft with that than with body language, as the Dursleys weren’t exactly _subtle_ in theirs. Draco bit his lip, but then somewhat cautiously nodded. “If you think you can do so without revealing any details on who or why. And as long as it doesn’t take too long. I think tomorrow is the latest I can wait without losing face over it.”

Harry nodded his agreement. “I’ll try to talk to them today. Maybe let you know if I have something before my detention?” After would be risky, since he had no idea how long he’d be kept there. Draco seemed agreeable to that idea, judging by his relieved nod. “Now, I want to hear any detail you think you can tell me. The more I know, the better I can figure out what to tell the twins.”

Draco had just launched into a very long and surprisingly detailed description of what had happened—Harry rather thought he’d make an excellent reporter or storyteller—when there was a clearing of a throat that didn’t belong to either of them. It stopped Draco mid-word.

“Umm, Draco?” They looked up at… Crabbe? Yes, probably Crabbe. “People are coming. Should I let them in or block them?” He accompanied the two options with a thumbs up and thumbs down gesture, respectively.

It took Harry a few heartbeats to figure out what was going on. Then he groaned. “Someone must have gone to a Professor or something and told them you’d kidnapped me.”

Draco sighed. “Either that, or word got back to my Housemates who took offence to me showing this room to you.”

Harry snorted, but silently agreed that a mob of angry Slytherins might be worse than a Professor—even if that Professor was Snape, because Snape would probably not outright harm him. “As though I’d be able to find my way back,” he argued, trying to focus on solutions rather than problems. After a moment or two, he thought he had one. “You could always tell them you brought me here blindfolded, and plan on taking me back the same way.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and then he nodded sharply. Standing up, he walked over to Crabbe and Goyle and though Harry tried to listen in on the quiet conversation he couldn’t make out more than a few words. It was enough, however, to figure out that Draco was giving them instructions and informing them that if anyone asked, Harry had been blindfolded at least most of the way here.

One of the two bodyguards dug into the drawer again, and came out with what looked like a scarf of some sort. Draco took it with a smirk and came back, casually throwing it at the end of the chesterfield before sitting down.

“I’m not going to ask why there’s a random scarf in the room,” Harry said. Hopefully someone had merely forgotten it at one point or other, but judging by the smirk on Draco’s face it was more likely it had been used before for the exact same purpose they were going to pretend. “Oh, maybe you should put your letter away?”

“Salazar’s balls,” Draco swore under his breath and snatched the roll up before hurriedly returning it to his bag. “Thanks, Harry.”

Not many seconds after that the door opened abruptly, without so much as a knock, and Professors Snape and McGonagall stood in the doorway, and Harry relaxed at the lack of a Slytherin mob wanting to lynch him. Both adults seemed to be slightly puzzled when they found Harry and Draco sitting at least somewhat amicably on opposite sides of the table, as if they’d expected something completely different.

“What is going on here?” McGonagall demanded to know.

Harry just shrugged, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear him, and that seemed to somehow infuriate her. Then Snape cleared his throat.

“If you want to talk to them, you want to step across that line on the floor,” he said with a nod toward said line. “There’s a permanent privacy ward in this room. They can hear us, but we won’t be able to hear them from outside it.”

McGonagall shot him a brief glare, but came closer, followed by Snape. “Now tell me, what’s going on? Why was I told that you’d been dragged kicking and yelling into the dungeons by a group of Slytherins planning on scaring the life out of you?”

Harry stared at her for a few seconds, then looked across at Draco. The absurdity of the situation caught up with him, and the laughter bubbled up. That somehow seemed to set Draco off as well, and they were soon both curled up on their respective furniture, bellies cramped up from laughing. Well, Harry’s was, and he could only imagine it was the same for Draco.

“Harry James Potter!” McGonagall snapped.

“S-sorry, Professor,” Harry gasped, and made an effort to calm down. “We didn’t mean to worry you. Dra… I mean, Mr Malfoy here managed to trick me into bargaining for his help to find the Potions lab, when it was just some ten metres away. I offered an hour’s conversation.”

“An hour of your undivided attention, Potter,” Draco said breathlessly as he sat up into a weak semblance of his normal cool and collected appearance. “You keep getting distracted, don’t you?”

Harry waved a hand dismissively at him. “I assumed you’d paused the timer already. If you didn’t, you only have yourself to blame.” Was it his imagination, or did the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch a little at that? “Anyway, after a very brief bit of haggling, we settled for one hour at a place of his choosing. Last time we spoke, it was mentioned that the looks on my Housemates’ faces if we were going to the dungeons instead of the library would be interesting to see, so I admit that we staged a bit of a show, especially with the audience we had. I was by no means kicking and screaming, but I can see how those watching might have drawn the conclusion I was unwilling or felt threatened to go along with it. I’m sorry, Professor. I really didn’t mean to worry you.” His eyes slid to the once more scowling face of Snape. “I’m sorry, Professor Snape, for making you spend your time chasing us down.”

“Well,” McGonagall said uncertainly, looking between Harry and Draco. “You must understand what it sounded like to us. I think the number of friendships between Gryffindors and Slytherins can be counted on one hand for the last century or more.”

Snape snorted, and Harry was reminded of the Potions Professor’s friendship with Harry’s mum. That had been a Gryffindor and Slytherin too, hadn’t it? He bit his tongue to keep that information from slipping out. Snape had told him that in private, and Harry was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it being revealed as though it were common knowledge.

“I’m sure you no longer need me here,” he said stiffly. “Mr Potter, don’t forget your detention tonight.”

Harry nodded. “I remember, sir.” He’d ask a house-elf to show him the way to Snape’s office. Or, potentially, Draco. That would probably be easiest, considering he’d hopefully have something to share by then.

Snape looked between the two of them. “Mr Malfoy, I expect an explanation of this later.”

Harry could hear Draco swallow. “Yes, sir,” the Slytherin said, seemingly as intimidated by the Potions Professor as Harry tried to look. Not that Snape in this mood wasn’t intimidating, but Harry knew there was another side to him. Then again, with Draco being a Slytherin and having known him prior to starting at Hogwarts, he probably knew another side of Snape as well. Maybe Draco was pretending a little bit, too?

Snape turned around and stalked off, only pausing for a moment to glare at Crabbe and Goyle before leaving the room, all but slamming the door behind him.

McGonagall studied them for close to a minute, and the silence was making Harry more and more nervous. “Three points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin for making people worry about you,” she eventually said. “If it ever happens again, you can both look forward to detention. Is that understood?”

Harry nodded. Then he glanced at Draco, who looked reluctant but unwilling to protest. “With all due respect, Professor,” he therefore said in Draco’s stead. “That might be less possible to stick to than we all might want. Me and Draco are getting closer to friendship, yes, but it’s a friendship that won’t be looked kindly on by either of our Houses. We’re expecting a certain amount of… misinformation on both our parts regarding why we’re friendly with each other, and to keep up with that we might at times need to worry the other students here.” He looked up at her. “But I promise that I will at first opportunity either before or after such a scene contact Mipsy and ask her to relay what really happened to you. Is that acceptable, Professor?”

His heart thudded as he waited for her response. Finally she sighed. “I wish you didn’t feel you had to hide your friendship like that.”

Harry shook his head. “We’re not going to hide it. We’re just going to hide the reason for it. Meaning that Draco will most likely tell the Slytherins he’s simply after the political clout my name does and will carry, and I will tell the Gryffindors—once they’re less aghast over me talking to a _Slytherin_ , that is…” He trailed off, realising he hadn’t even figured out what to tell his Housemates. “I will tell them that I’m trying to soften him up, to make him realise that there’s nothing wrong with Muggleborn and Muggle-raised children. Which I am working on, by the way,” he added with a brief grin at Draco.

Draco shrugged. “And I’m not going to refuse the influence your name might give me,” he retorted casually.

“Yes, well, you see how it is,” Harry said to McGonagall, hoping she did see. “It was somewhat surprising to us how quickly we got past our differences, just by promising each other to do our best to get over any prejudices we might have. But others won’t expect us to be this friendly anytime soon, and both Gryffindors and Slytherins are going to assume there’s something wrong if we’re not…”

“Slightly antagonistic in public,” Draco took over, seemingly noticing Harry’s difficulty with coming up with the right words before it became obvious to everyone.

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

Again, McGonagall sighed. “Mr Potter… No, Harry. I wish you could relax more. You’re only eleven years old, and there’s no need for you to be thinking along those lines. Don’t you think you’re making it harder for people to accept the friendship between you and Mr Malfoy if you keep pretending you’re something you’re not?”

Harry looked at her for a few seconds. In a way, she was probably right and they were over-thinking things. And yet… He couldn’t shake the feeling that Draco had been at least partially right. People were watching and waiting for openings to exploit. His relatives had done that. Dudley’s friends had done that. The other children back at school had done that. Even if most of the Gryffindors might not be, the majority of the Slytherins would. “Yes, we’re only eleven, but I doubt that Draco has been allowed to be a child any more than I have, if for different reasons.” From the way Draco’s letter had been phrased to the things Draco had said about his upbringing, he was fairly certain about that. Not the same way as Harry had been denied a childhood—Merlin, he hoped not—but still. And that, he realised, was the largest difference between them and Ron. His head snapped to Draco, eyes widening, and he longed to inform the Slytherin of his latest realisation. But McGonagall was there, and this wasn’t the time.

“Oh, Harry,” McGonagall sighed.

Before she could say something Harry wasn’t yet ready to share with Draco, he stood up. “Again, Professor,” he said, “I’m sorry for worrying you. I will do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now, I believe I still owe Draco half an hour of my undivided attention, and I’d hate to be late for supper.”

McGonagall might be a Gryffindor, but she wasn’t an idiot by any means the way some said all Gryffindors were. She nodded once, sharply. “Make sure Mr Malfoy shows you the way back once you’re done, and I’ll want to see you in my office some day soon to discuss this.”

Well, at least she wasn’t demanding it today. Between Draco and asking the twins and calming Ron down and having detention, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to fit in McGonagall as well. “If you think that’s necessary,” he said reluctantly. He had a hard time seeing how she’d feel need to discuss it if, say, Hermione and Lavender became friends, as unlikely as that seemed. Perhaps he could sneak in some questions in that conversation as to how open-minded she really was about Slytherins?

“I do. Now… Behave, boys. I’d rather not have another influx of anxious pupils in my office today.”

She left the room less aggressively than Snape had, but still closed the door firmly behind her. No sooner had she gone than Crabbe and Goyle were standing an inch off the line between them, obviously wanting to cross it but reluctant to interrupt anything. Sighing softly, he waved them closer.

It didn’t pass him by that they glanced at Draco before accepting the invitation, but they did cross the line of the privacy ward. “Are you alright, Draco?” one of them asked. Goyle, Harry decided. “What did she say?”

Draco threw himself down on the chesterfield, settling an arm behind his head. “That I had apparently dragged Potter kicking and screaming to the dungeons in order to torture him.”

“Well,” Harry said dryly, “I have to say that it’s one of the more tolerable torture sessions I’ve experienced in my life. You’re not particularly good at it, are you?”

Crabbe shot a glare at him, but stopped in confusion when Draco chuckled. “That’s hardly polite to tell me, is it? Unless you’d like to offer some suggestions on how to become better? I’m sure if we looked hard enough I could find restraints and whips somewhere down here.”

Harry’s smirk faded entirely as memories of the times Vernon had taken his belt to Harry’s backside welled up inside of him. He clenched his jaws tightly against the sudden nausea and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he managed.

Draco’s look turned from mild confusion to one of alarmed realisation, and that almost made it worse. Thankfully nothing was said about it, and he turned his attention back to Crabbe and Goyle within a few seconds. “We informed her of the misunderstanding, but she still took three points off us both for ‘worrying others’ and made us promise to be more careful in the future.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing too bad. I will, of course, stick to the blindfold story when it gets back to the Slytherin common room, as it inevitably will.”

Goyle nodded. “We’ll remember it. Did you need anything?”

Draco shook his head, and the two retreated to the other side of the ward, returning to their card game. Which reminded Harry… “How did they know someone was coming?”

Draco shrugged. “Some sort of proximity ward. I don’t know how it works, though. I imagine it’s been useful for older students spending time here after curfew.”

Why only older students? Didn’t younger ones ignore curfew at times, too? And then Draco’s smirk and raised eyebrow drove it home what he meant. “Oh. Oh! Ew, Draco, surely you don’t mean…” Had people been snogging on this very sofa? Or worse, gone further than mere snogging? Ew.

Draco laughed, and Harry was torn between laughing with him and being offended. All too soon, however, the laughter faded away and Draco sat up, turning a serious face toward him. “Harry, you said neither of us had been ‘allowed to be a child, if for different reasons.’ What did you mean?”

Harry’s heart seemed to lurch in his chest before thudding so hard he thought it’d break out. Like those aliens Duncan Harwood had described just a few months ago in his attempts to gross the girls in their class out. “Well, it just seemed like it to me. You’ve made comments about your strict upbringing, and you don’t seem to speak to your dad the way most children would. ‘The Lord my father’? Is your dad a Lord?” That would explain a lot if he were.

“Mm, of sorts I suppose. It all comes back to old families and blood purity. It’s not commonly used these days, of course. Fallen into disuse in much due to the Muggleborns. Wouldn’t want to _confuse_ them.” Sarcasm was practically dripping off that last bit. “But I suppose you’re right. I’ve had expectations on me since I was young, to behave correctly, speak properly and display the appropriate table manners and social etiquette. Many of us purebloods are raised that way, though, so I’m hardly alone in that. But what about you? Why would you include yourself in that?”

Harry looked away, unwilling to meet Draco’s eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it. Especially now, after hearing that Draco’s family was some sort of nobility and Draco had been raised to match that. He suddenly recalled a book he’d read a few years back about a French prince and his whipping boy, and the recollection made him shudder. The book itself hadn’t been bad, and the two boys had become friends, but the implications on his and Draco’s relationship… And yet, Draco deserved to hear at least some parts of it. He’d let Harry in on personal details, so how could Harry do differently?

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco said just as he’d opened his mouth to begin. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s… alright. I just don’t like others to know. It’s… personal.” He glanced up. “If you let _anyone_ else know…”

Draco nodded. “No one will find my body. I remember.”

He sighed and slumped against the backrest. “Well, you know I’m Muggle-raised. I didn’t find out magic existed until my Hogwarts letter arrived.” He blinked, remembering the first time they’d met. “Sorry, by the way. I didn’t really intend to insult you back at the robe shop. I really do want people to respect me for who _I_ am and what I do from here-on out, not for something that happened ten years ago that I don’t even remember and that I might not be the cause of in the first place. If you hadn’t commented about people who only found out what they were when the letter arrived, I’d have apologised and explained myself better.” He waited a second or three, but Draco didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. So he forced himself to go on. “Anyway, my relatives… they hated everything strange or ‘unnatural’, and strange things always seemed to happen around me.”

“Accidental magic,” Draco mumbled.

Harry nodded. “Yes. So whenever things happened, they blamed me. Of course, they had to know magic existed; it’s my mum’s sister, after all. She must have known her sister was a witch.” He shot a suspicious glance at Draco, wondering if he’d make a comment about Muggleborns. He needn’t have bothered. Either Draco was changing his mind or he’d learned enough not to voice his thoughts on it around Harry.

“Harry…” Draco said instead, very, very quietly. “When you say they blamed you, did they…?”

Harry shrugged. “Mostly I was locked up in my– In my room. A few times my uncle took his belt to me.” And then there’d been the times when he’d been shaken or slapped or shoved against a wall or yanked around hard enough to damage muscles and ligaments. He’d asked Healer Aldaine to read the list they’d printed out at St Mungo’s, but he’d regretted it after reading it. It was one thing to know he’d been badly treated, but quite another to see it so clinically described. This or that bone broken in two places, two weeks to heal—apparently magic helped children survive things they normally wouldn’t, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved over that.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, still quietly, but it was enough to break Harry out of his painful memories. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, and I shouldn’t have made that torture joke.”

Harry forced himself to smile. “Don’t worry about it, Draco. You didn’t know, and it’s not something I normally think about. It did, however, force me to grow up faster than the other children around me.” He sighed. “Ron is different. He _was_ allowed to be a child, and I think that’s why you and I understand each other on a different level than he and I. It’s why, I believe, you are able to be civil toward him while he’s…” He winced. “Well, behaving like a child bereft of his favourite toy, sometimes. You’d think that with five brothers he’d have grown up used to sharing.”

Draco’s head was tilted slightly to the side as he looked thoughtfully at Harry. “Maybe that’s exactly it,” he said, though his inflection made it sound more like a question. He closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered. “I mean, thinking about it from an abstract point of view, ignoring who it is, perhaps someone who’s grown up sharing with his brothers all his life and who’s now found something that is _his_ without having belonged to his brothers first, something he’s not expected to share with his brothers. Perhaps that’s why he’s so unwilling to share?”

Harry considered that for a minute or two. He supposed that made sense, even if he still resented being called ‘something’ in that analogy. He tried to see it from that perspective, tried to imagine having had to share everything he ever had. It wasn’t as difficult as he’d hoped it’d be. Harry had never had anything of his own, and the moment he had something of his own… he’d clung to it with all his strength. To the point where he’d accused McGonagall of being like his aunt and uncle. To the point where he never left his key in his room unless he absolutely had to, and those times he hid it as best he could.

Great. He was Ron’s Gringotts key.

“That makes far too much sense, Draco,” he groaned. He didn’t want Draco to be right.

Draco shrugged. “I just imagined things the opposite from my situation. I’m an only child, and if I’ve wanted something I’ve usually been given it. But I’ve never had an issue sharing those things with my friends, as long as I’ve had a chance to use it first. It’s never been a big deal; if it’s broken or lost, I can always get a replacement.”

Harry chuckled briefly. “Me first, everyone else second. It does seem to fit together with the attitude you showed back in Diagon Alley.” He blinked, and stared calmly at Draco. “Just keep in mind that the same does not apply to me. I do not belong to either you or Ron.” There was only one person he’d ever belong to.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good.” Then Harry smiled almost shyly. “Would you mind telling me what it was like, growing up the way you did? Only the parts you want to share, of course.”

Draco smirked and stretched out on his side on the chesterfield, supporting his head in his palm. “What would you like to know, Harry?”

Uhh… “What’s it like where you live? What does your room look like?” What might Harry have had if he’d grown up with his parents still alive?

“The Malfoys have their manor house down in Wiltshire. I’ve heard Father say it’s ‘decent’ but that it’s not like what we had back in the day. I don’t know; I think it’s just fine. Sometimes it feels too big for three people, even if we had half a dozen house-elves to take care of it.”

Too big? “How big is it?” Then, when Draco frowned in what Harry thought was confusion over the question, he added, “I mean, how many rooms?”

“Oh, uh… Maybe five personal bedrooms, and an additional six or seven rooms or suites in the guest wing. Private and public dining rooms, two libraries, two, three… no, four various parlours and sitting rooms. I almost forgot Mother’s solar. And then…”

Harry listened in stunned silence as Draco listed room after room. Bloody hell, his home was _huge_! How many rooms were that, really? And how many bathrooms did they have? “I… I think you were right when you said it was too big for three people,” he said, somewhat numbly. The whole Weasley family wouldn’t even be able to fill it up! Not that he would mention that, of course. No need to push Draco’s buttons too much.

“Yes, well, theoretically there used to be more people. Servants, extended family, several generations under one roof, that sort of thing.” Draco shrugged, then launched into a vivid description of his bedroom.

It wasn’t until they left that room nearly forty-five minutes later that Harry remembered he’d completely forgotten to bring up Hagrid’s errand and the article, and by then there was no more time to do so. He’d just have to remember it next time.


	16. Detention

_…in which Harry fulfils a promise, tries to convince a stubborn friend, and learns that not all detentions are the same._

 

“Fred? George?” Harry asked hesitantly.

The two boys turned around where they sat and beamed at him. “What can we…” one of them began.

“…do to you?” the other finished.

“I’d like to talk to you after you’ve finished eating, if you don’t mind.” For once, he hadn’t waited for Ron to finish before getting up from his seat. He had made it back to the tower just in time to go down for supper, but Ron had been in a snit because he’d been later than he’d said, and had refused to talk to him. He’d probably worked himself up while worrying and convinced himself either that Draco had killed Harry after all, or that Harry preferred Draco’s company over his despite having denied it several times and that they’d spent all this time laughing about Ron behind his back. Still, knowing what had most likely happened didn’t exactly make it any easier to smooth things over.

More than likely, Ron was now waiting for Harry to apologise for their argument—or taking on the blame for its cause—but Harry certainly wasn’t going to offer an apology, at least not in public, for Ron having been immature and insecure. If Ron hadn’t changed his mind by the time Harry got back from detention, he’d corner him somewhere and force him to discuss just what his issues were and why they kept circling back to hostility toward Slytherins.

Fred and George now looked at each other. One of them raised his eyebrows, the other shrugged just a little bit. Then they smiled at Harry. “Why not? We could…”

“…sacrifice a few minutes of our valuable time…”

“…to see what our ickle brother’s friend would want.”

Harry had an eerie sensation they were doing that sort of thing on purpose, to deliberately confuse people. Then again, he’d never had a twin, so it might be they really were that deeply connected. He nodded and took a couple of steps to the nearest pillar to wait until the two were done. He didn’t have to wait long, and he wondered if the two had been more curious than they’d shown him.

“So what do you want?” one of them asked as they left the Great Hall.

“Friendship advice?”

“Dirty secrets for blackmail?”

“Embarrassing stories from when he was little?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing like that, though it could be vaguely related.” Ron wasn’t the one he needed information on, but if they had any on Travers he wouldn’t say no. “I think it might be better discussed in relative privacy.”

“Say no more, say no more,” they both said as one, and led Harry up one floor and into a corridor. Opening a door seemingly at random, they ushered him into a classroom. Only it didn’t look like it had been used as such for years, the tables and chairs sitting in complete disarray. There was the vaguest smell in the air that reminded him of the Potions lab.

One of the twins pulled out his wand and two chairs in a corner took on a decidedly softer look. The other twin waved his own wand and a third chair floated over. It had soon acquired the same plush quality as the other two.

“Go on, sit down and…”

“…tell us all about your problems,” the twins told him.

The three sat down, and Harry took a deep breath. “It’s… a bit complicated, and I can’t really tell you that much about it. But I’m hoping you two can help me. Discreetly.”

They grinned. “Oh, we are the very…”

“…picture of discretion!”

Harry wasn’t sure whether to believe that or not, but he’d promised to talk to them. “Well, as I’m sure you’d expected, Ron told me that you two have a certain interest in… making other people the butt of your jokes.”

Their eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you telling us…”

“…you want to get back at Ron…”

“…by pranking him?”

Get back at _Ron_? Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he had a chance to say a single word the expression on the twins’ faces stopped him. He’d _heard_ the term ‘shit-eating grin’, but he’d never before seen one.

“If so, you’ve come…”

“…to the right place.”

“Err, no. Though if he insists on acting like a jealous five-year-old much longer I might get back to you on that.” He flushed slightly. He hadn’t quite intended to say that, but these two had a way of pulling him in and getting him to let his guard down. A very dangerous quality, that, especially if they had done all those things Ron had told him about. Or maybe he was more of a Gryffindor than he liked, not always thinking before blurting things out. Either way, he’d need to watch what he said to them more carefully, to keep himself from revealing more than he wanted. “No, it’s someone else I’d like to get back at. For trying to hit me with a hex of some kind.” He’d decided it would be easiest to say he’d been the target. And since he hadn’t exactly been seen by anyone other than Draco, Crabbe and Goyle down there, no one else—apart from Travers herself, and she’d have said she didn’t do it even if she had—would be able to say for certain it hadn’t happened. “I’m not sure what kind, to be honest. It missed me, but hit someone else.” He pulled a face, not sure how to avoid more details. “It wasn’t pretty, but was at least reversible without a trip to the Hospital Wing. Someone else knew the… counter?” That was what Draco had called it, right? Hexes and counter-hexes. “Anyway, I want to get back at her, because if it had hit me, I doubt anyone there would have wanted to fix me.” Also true. “I just don’t want it to be obvious or traced back to me.”

There was a glint in their eyes as they looked between each other and him, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret it. Was it just eagerness to come up with a prank, or did they think they had figured out what really happened? Or _had_ they figured out what really happened, that he wasn’t asking for himself but for Draco?

“I think we have…”

“…exactly the thing you want.”

One of them got up and went over to a cabinet. Waving his wand around the lock in a complicated movement while mumbling something unintelligible, he then opened it up and bent almost double as he rummaged around in it. Harry could see… Yep, he could see a cauldron in there. Did they use this classroom to make potions? Did Snape know about that? He rather doubted it.

The twin in question backed out of the cabinet after a minute or so and presumably locked it again, if Harry was to guess at the meaning of the wand movement and mumbled incantation or password. He came back and held out a small vial. “Get this in her somehow, and enjoy the results.”

“It was an experiment we did…”

“…but it didn’t come out right. For what _you_ want, however…”

“…it should do wonderfully.”

Harry took it and peered at it as he shook it. There was some sort of liquid inside the dark glass, but it could have been anything from water to soy sauce to poison. “What does it do?”

“Acute stuttering and muscle spasms ranging from minor tics to complete seizures.”

“No antidote as far as we know, but it only lasts about an hour or so…”

“…and doesn’t cause any lasting harm.”

“Apart from severe embarrassment.”

Harry closed his hand around the bottle. “Taste?”

One of them tilted his head to the side, thinking. “Slightly bitter, with a hint of aniseed. Actually not that terrible, all things considered.”

“Figures,” Harry muttered. Medicines tasted bad, poisons tasted good. He looked at them thoughtfully. “What were you trying to make?” And why had they tried the result on themselves?

“Something to induce what looks like real illness…”

“Puking, headache, something like that.”

“…that’d pass as soon as you took the antidote.”

“To get out of class and such.”

“We’ve put it on the shelf for the time being…”

“…until we’ve figured out the theory a bit better.”

Was it rude to think that their manner of talking was less disturbing if you tried to see them as a single person instead of two? Probably. Either way, not something he’d mention to them. “So I use all of this, or just a part?”

The one who hadn’t gone to fetch it peered at it, while the other nodded “It’s about enough for one dose of it in there. If you need more, you’ll have to talk to us again.”

“But if it gets out, we had nothing to do with it.”

Harry smiled innocently at them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just asking for advice on how to make Ron feel better, that’s all.”

The twins shared a glance, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re precious!”

“We like you, Harry.”

“Totally ruined on Gryffindor, you are.”

It was an effort to maintain his innocent façade at that last comment. Did they know? Surely not. “Like you two, you mean?” he asked in return. They didn’t really strike him as the stereotypical Gryffindors, after all, and either he’d ease their minds or he’d warn them that if they said anything he’d do the same to them.

“Oh, absolutely,” one said, which probably went under the first of the two outcomes he’d expected.

“Just like our heroes.”

Heroes? Harry wasn’t entirely sure what they meant, but it wasn’t really anything he was particularly interested in. “Well, thank you for your… advice,” he said instead, standing up and sliding the vial into his book bag.

“Any day, Harry Potter,” they told him with a grin. “Any day. We’re always up for making the world a more friendly place.”

He nodded once at them, before leaving the room. Checking his watch—he’d never be able to thank Mipsy enough for finding it for him—he realised he had about half an hour left, a little more, until he needed to make his way down to the dungeons to find Draco. Not enough time to get started on some of his homework, but enough time to swing by Gryffindor tower to see if Ron was there and felt like talking again.

 

*          _ϟ_           *

 

He found Ron in the common room, playing cards with Dean and Seamus. Neville was sitting curled up in an armchair with what looked like their Herbology textbook open in his lap, which probably—hopefully—explained why he wasn’t playing with them this time either. Harry sat down and watched the game until it appeared one of them was winning. Then he stood up and approached them.

“Ron? Do you have a minute?”

Ron ignored him at first, gathering up the cards. Then, after several long seconds, he glanced up. “Sure you don’t want to talk to your new best friend instead?”

Harry sighed, deciding not to argue the term because then they’d probably get stuck doing that instead of addressing anything really important. “If I did, would I look for him here?”

“You might be lost.”

This had probably been a mistake anyway. “And should I act the way you do, Ron? Throw a fit whenever you hang out with someone else?” He shot a glance to Seamus and Dean. “Yes, I know he’s a Slytherin. I know a large part of why he wants to be friends with me is that he’s after the prestige that’s attached to my name.” If Ron wanted to do this in front of everyone, why should he argue with that? Besides, it was a good setting to start what he’d told McGonagall he’d tell the Gryffindors. “I’m not an idiot, Ron. I’m not entirely without ulterior motives either. But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s not impossible to have more than one good friend, and I’d really _like_ it if you were one of them.” He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until he’d have to run in order to make it. “But I can’t be your friend if you won’t even talk to me.” Or if he’d talk himself into a mood whenever Harry spent time with Draco.

Apparently his checking the time hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Counting the minutes until you get to run off to your Slytherin?”

Harry felt like screaming. Instead he only said, affecting a dry tone, “If you want to call Professor Snape ‘my Slytherin’, then yes.”

Ron’s cheeks grew almost as red as his hair. “Shit, sorry, I’d forgotten about that,” he mumbled.

Of course he had. Just like he conveniently seemed to forget other things as well. Harry just shrugged, choosing not to make an issue of it. “I guess you’ve been avoiding thinking about it.”

“A bit, yeah,” Ron admitted.

“Look, I need to go—have to go by the loo on the way—but just think about it till I get back, alright? And… do keep in mind that I’m not Scabbers. I’m not property to be held on tightly to and never shared with anyone else.”

He left with all three of them staring at him like he was crazy, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. He’d let Ron consider it for a few hours, and if he was still stubborn by then… Well, then he supposed he’d have to carefully think about if it was worth the hassle.

He took his time in the nearest bathroom, washing his hands and face more thoroughly than he probably needed. Had he been too harsh with Ron? Were it he and Draco who were out of line and Ron who was right? He’d have to stay in the same room as Ron for seven years now, and if they were at odds… He stood there for a few minutes, his thoughts racing. The moment he felt a twinge of a thought that maybe he should tell Draco that they couldn’t be friends after all, that he had to apologise to Ron and patch it up and being friends with Draco would ruin that, he turned off the water with a snarl.

No. Those were the kind of thoughts he’d left behind years ago. The kind of thinking that said that he was to blame for what happened, no matter what it was. He’d stopped doing that a long time ago, apart from that recent relapse, but he was over that now and he wasn’t about to pick it up again now just because someone he’d like to be friends with was being reluctant to accept him for who he was.

Wiping his face, he left the loo and headed down to the dungeons. He had almost ten minutes until he was supposed to meet Draco, and he might as well be there by then. He could use the few extra minutes to put aside his worries over Ron and focus on getting through the detention and giving Draco his news, first. Heading down the stairs, he leaned against the wall to wait, hoping he wouldn’t be found by some other Slytherin first.

“Oh look,” a voice said just a few minutes later, and he looked up to see a vaguely familiar, dark-skinned boy. It took a second or two to remember it had been the one to be Sorted last. Za… something. “Aren’t you a little early for your _detention_ , Potter?”

Harry smiled. At least he’d managed to calm down. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve ever been to Professor Snape’s office before, so I asked someone to show me there. We’re supposed to meet up here.”

“I’m surprised you dared to come down here alone after what happened the last time you were here. Did you have a pleasant stay in the dungeons? Draco treat you… well?”

The boy had clearly listened to the rumours and thought Draco had dragged him down to bully him a bit. “I did, actually, thank you for asking,” Harry said mildly. “It was very enlightening.”

The boy blinked, clearly surprised by the response. “You twisted, or something?” he asked suspiciously.

Before Harry could ask what he was on about, another voice interrupted them. “Really, _Zabini_? That the best you can do?” There was a slight emphasis on the boy’s name—which Harry remembered now that he heard it again—and Harry wondered about both that and the resulting flush on Zabini’s face. “Thank you for keeping Harry company, but I’ll take it from here.”

To Harry’s surprise, Zabini actually took a step backwards and smiled at Draco, though it was slightly thin-lipped and strained. “You’re quite welcome, Malfoy. You’re the one he asked to show him the way, then?”

“Indeed I am.” Draco half smirked, then turned to Harry. “Well, come along. Professor Snape is waiting.”

“And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting, I take it,” Harry sighed, knowing the answer to that already thanks to Nonny. He pushed himself off the wall, then glanced at Zabini. He nodded politely; being rude wouldn’t exactly help his mission to ease the tension between their Houses. “Thank you for the company, Zabini.” He passed him and fell in beside Draco. “You didn’t end up in trouble for earlier, did you Draco?” he asked, adding the name half on purpose. He sensed something was up with that, considering the earlier emphasis and Zabini’s use of Malfoy rather than Draco that second time. Maybe Zabini thought he was closer friends with Malfoy than he really was? Or maybe he just wanted to project that idea? Maybe, especially if he thought Draco had been mean to Harry, he’d tried to make Harry think Draco had told him all about it?

Draco shrugged. “He was slightly upset,” he said quietly, “but more about losing time in his lab than that I’d taken you there, I think. It was strange, really. I’d have thought he’d have been more upset with me showing a Gryffindor—and you in particular—a Slytherin secret, and I’d come prepared with the blindfold explanation, but… He just touched on it briefly and then went back to how I’d wasted his time looking for us, ‘time better spent on more worthwhile endeavours’.” The last bit was said in what was clearly a mimicry of Snape’s dry disdain, and Harry’s lips twitched into a smile.

He casually glanced behind as they turned a corner, and was relieved when he didn’t see Zabini anywhere. “Do you think he’s following us?” he murmured to Draco.

Draco didn’t ask who he meant. Instead he put his fingers lightly against Harry’s upper arm, closed his eyes and walked blindly next to him, his footsteps near-silent. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t think so, but keep it down nevertheless. Did you find anything out?”

Harry hefted his bag up further on his shoulder and subtly but casually slid his hand into it and fished out the small bottle. He held it up. “This in her food or drink, and she’ll have difficulties hexing anyone for an hour. Tastes a bit bitter and liquorice-y, apparently, so take that in mind. Or would you prefer if I do it? That way no one can say you were near her food.”

Draco sniffed. “And you’d be any less suspect, hanging around her? I don’t think so.”

Harry grinned at him. “You forget I know a house-elf. I’m sure I could convince her to see to it.” If not, maybe he could ask Nonny. He wasn’t entirely sure this would fall under her promise to help him if he needed it, after all. He wasn’t too sure Nonny would be any easier to convince, but since it involved Slytherins and he was assigned to the Head of Slytherin, Harry _might_ be able to convince him it was something best dealt with discreetly and unofficially.

For a moment Draco almost stopped, but he quickly seemed to regain control of himself. “That… would be adequate. Breakfast tomorrow, then. Shame it’s a Saturday as the audience will likely be smaller, but if I wait until Monday…”

Harry nodded his understanding and slid the small bottle back into his bag. “I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.” He raised his voice to slightly more normal volume. “Well, here we are,” he said, stopping next to a door. “Will you be alright on your own?”

After taking a deep breath, Harry nodded. “I’ll be fine. What’s the worst he could do?”

Something dark flickered past Draco’s eyes, and the smile he gave wasn’t wholehearted. “I’m sure you’ll be alright,” he said, nodded at him and turned around. Harry watched him walk away, convinced he’d once more missed something, but he couldn’t quite say what it was.

Shaking himself, he looked at his watch. Five to seven. Well, he certainly wasn’t late, at least. But was he too early? Only one way to find out. He swallowed and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” he heard Snape’s voice, sounding sharp and slightly annoyed even through the door.

Harry opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “I’m here for my detention, sir,” he said. “If I’m interrupting you, I can wait until seven.”

Snape looked up from what looked like paperwork, judging by the quill in his hand. “Come in,” he said, and when Harry silently obeyed he pointed at a chair with the end of his quill. “Sit quietly.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry walked over to the chair and sat down. He waited to be told what to do next, but Snape returned to his paperwork. Several times, Harry drew breath to ask what he was supposed to do this detention, but then he remembered the part about sitting _quietly_ , and decided it was better not to say anything. Besides, sitting in a chair was better than a lot of things he could have been doing instead, depending on how much Snape was going to keep up his mask even when they were to all appearances alone. And being quiet and pretending he didn’t exist was something he knew quite well how to do.

The seconds ticked by into minutes, and Harry allowed his thoughts to wander in order to keep himself from boredom. Mainly, he let his mind return to the Ron issue in an attempt to come up with a way to get him to start to grow up, or at least to keep him from backtracking whenever he’d made some seemingly solid progress. By the time he heard Snape clear his throat, he hadn’t made that much headway, but he shook himself and looked up.

“I’m so glad to have your attention again,” Snape said, somewhat snidely.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said. He wasn’t about to forget Snape’s admonition to address him with respect. “I lost track of time.”

“I noticed. Well, as I’m done with correcting summer essays, you might as well come with me. There’s a pile of cauldrons and beakers in my personal lab that need washing up.”

They stood up at the same time, and Harry followed Snape through a small door on a side wall and closed it behind him out of habit. He shouldn’t have been surprised to end up in the living room where he’d first talked to Snape, but he still was. He was even more surprised when Snape instead of showing him where his personal lab was sat down in one of the chairs in front of the fire. Snape gestured to the other one, and Harry looked at him in confusion.

“Sir?”

Snape heaved a sigh. “That means, ‘sit’. Surely it’s not that difficult to understand?”

“No, sir.” Cautiously, Harry approached the fireplace and perched on the edge of the available armchair. “I thought we were headed to your lab, sir.”

“Did I say we were, Potter?”

“Well, yes, you…” He trailed off, thinking back on what had actually been said. “Not explicitly, sir.” Technically, Snape had just described the state of his lab, not that Harry was supposed to be doing something to correct that.

“Precisely.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Harry didn’t respond to Snape’s comment. Why had Snape expressed things that way? There was no reason to lie to Harry, was there? Not when he was going to figure out in just a minute or so that it was a lie. To mislead him? Make him worry? See if he’d protest washing up? Or was he watched even in his office? “Professor?” he began slowly. “May I ask why you misled me like that?”

Snape seemed to consider that. “You may,” he said eventually.

Harry waited for him to go on, but then realised Snape had done it yet again. Had he not been as nervous as he was, he would probably have found it amusing. “Why did you mislead me, sir?”

“Why do you think?” Snape’s question wasn’t sharp or dismissive. It actually sounded like he wanted to hear Harry’s reasoning. Or at least his conclusions.

“Well, I can see two or three different motivations. Either you wanted to make me nervous or worried, or you wanted to see if I’d object to the kind of chores I’ve been doing for the past six or seven years…” Which, now that he thought about it, seemed somewhat unlikely. Snape had known he was used to doing chores. Unless he’d forgotten that Harry had told him about it, of course. “Or,” he took a deep breath, “you suspect or know you’re being watched even in your office but not in here.”

Snape studied him for a few moments in silence. “Interesting. Naturally, your deduction skills leave something still to be desired, but interesting nonetheless.” He shifted in his chair, leaning back a little. “But that is neither here nor there. I had not intended for you to do chores tonight. I had assumed you would want to talk. To… reassure yourself that I have not changed my mind.”

“You’re not going to answer my question?”

“Does it require an answer?”

Harry’s first instinct was to blurt out a yes, but he bit his tongue and thought about it. Did he need to know why? He was curious, yes, but… He had secrets of his own that he didn’t want to talk about, and if he did something for or because of the Being or the Host, he sure wouldn’t want to explain why. Snape surely had secrets of his own. In all likelihood not related in the least to Harry’s, but did that really matter? He sighed and shook his head. “No, sir, I suppose it doesn’t. Just… Would you prefer that public roles are maintained in your office as well, even if it might appear that we’re alone?”

Snape inclined his head. “I would.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll remember that, sir.”

Snape’s face was almost impassive, his eyebrows rising just a fraction. “That’s it, then? No questions? No demands to know why?”

Was Snape testing him, or was he actually curious? After considering it for a few heartbeats, Harry decided it didn’t matter. Just like it didn’t matter why Snape felt the need for secrecy in his office, it didn’t matter why he wanted to know this. Besides, it wasn’t as though Harry felt some sort of need to keep his reasons to himself. He shrugged. “Why should I, sir? Even if I don’t know your reason, you have one.” Snape wasn’t the Being, and Harry didn’t _trust_ him as such, but in this he felt he could trust him. “I don’t need to know your reasons to respect your wishes.” He raised his eyes to briefly look into Snape’s, but remembered the warning he’d been given and broke the connection as quickly as he could without raising suspicion. “Just as I’d hope you’d respect mine, were the situation the opposite.” Who knew? Maybe they would at some point be in a position where Harry didn’t want to explain himself to Snape? Perhaps, if he planted the seeds for it now, Snape would respect that then.

The room was silent for a while, save the crackling of the flames. “No, you’re certainly not at all what I expected, Mr Potter,” Snape said quietly, as if to himself.

Harry bit the side of his lip. He wanted to tell Snape to call him Harry, that he didn’t like being called by his surname like that. He wanted to say how much he hated the way Snape said his last name in public, that it only made his associations to his own surname worse than they already were. He said nothing, because what if Snape changed his mind? What if he sent him away, or changed his mind about chores, or…

“I apologise for class today,” Snape said softly. “I was grasping at any means to be able to speak privately to you, and I know it must have been difficult for you to remember I don’t dislike you.”

Harry looked down at his hands, and nodded. “I’m sorry for what I said, too. I didn’t mean to say it; it just came out.”

A low chuckle came from Snape, and Harry looked up in slight surprise though he caught himself before getting any further than Snape’s chin. “Don’t. It gave me the perfect excuse. I do have a certain reputation for being a strict instructor, and anyone saying something like that to me would have ended up in the most dire consequences. If you hadn’t, I would have found something else, and that might have been less believable.” The smile faltered. “I did mean what I said about your pencil, though. I will not allow any writing implement other than a quill in my classroom.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not mine. Like I said, I borrowed it, and I promised Dean I’d be careful with it. Could I please have it back?” Snape didn’t answer straight away, and Harry decided to sweeten the deal. “I told Draco…” Wait, was Snape supposed to know they were friends? But no, he had to know, having seen them in that room earlier today. “I told him I’d ask for it back, that I’d offer to volunteer for extra detentions or promise you’d never see it in the lab again.”

Some time while Harry had spoken, a stillness had fallen over Snape, but it hadn’t seemed like a dangerous stillness. Now he leaned forward just a little and fixed Harry with his gaze firmly enough that Harry could practically _feel_ it despite not meeting it. “Did he give you permission to call him Draco?” he asked, again sounding more curious than accusatory.

His reaction, especially in combination with Zabini’s behaviour earlier, led Harry to think even more that there was something else involved. He really needed to finish that etiquette book, but with homework and balancing his friendships he hadn’t had much time or energy left. “Well, not as such,” he admitted, thinking back to what had been said and not. Was that also why Snape insisted on calling Harry ‘Mr Potter’ even in private? Because he thought he didn’t have permission to do so? “I did tell him that if he was serious about wanting to be my friend, he’d better call me Harry, and he’s never said anything against me calling him Draco. Well, in public he still mostly calls me Potter, so I follow his lead on that.” He shrugged. “It seems to have worked fine so far.”

Snape snorted. “He may just assume you’re acting like a Gryffindor, and thus considers it pointless to try to correct you.”

After Harry had told him about the Sorting? Unlikely. He shook his head. “I don’t think he does. I mean, he knows I’m reading about wizarding etiquette—though I haven’t had as much time for that as I’d like—and he has apologised for assuming anything about me based on my House.” Surely that was safe to say without revealing the reasons why.

“Did he, now?”

Harry hesitated. With Snape being Draco’s Head of House, it would probably be easier if Snape knew more than the rest of the school. “He probably wouldn’t admit it, though. I mean, he’s a Slytherin…” Snape stiffened, and Harry hurried on, “…and I know that his main reason for being civil to me in the first place is to take advantage of any prestige my acquaintance can bring him. But… for a while he’s going to pretend that’s his _only_ reason to talk to me. That he’s only catering to my ‘bleeding heart’, as he described it, out of purely selfish reasons. So admitting anything like that would probably not fit into that pretence.”

Snape had relaxed again, but now he snorted. “And you believe him when he says it’s only pretence? He _is_ , as you said, a Slytherin.”

Harry looked at Snape for a few seconds, trying to figure out what his game was. Then he gave up on that. “So are you, sir.”

“That is precisely–” Snape caught himself, his lips turning down. “That is correct,” he said then, more calmly than the previous attempt.

Harry frowned. That hadn’t been what he’d been about to say, was it? Harry would be willing to bet his entire fortune that what Snape had been about to say was, ‘That is precisely my point.’ Did that mean he wasn’t to be trusted either? “Either way, I’m not saying it’s _all_ pretence. My motives aren’t pure, either. I do want to see if I can make him change his mind about Muggles and Muggleborns. Make him realise that they aren’t what he should try to work against. It’s not entirely an excuse I’ll tell the other Gryffindors. I also want to change the way people here view Slytherins.” He snorted, giving Snape a wry smile. “Gotta take advantage of my unwanted fame somehow, don’t I? If the Boy Who Lived is hanging out with a Slytherin, they can’t be all that bad, can they?” He shrugged. “I don’t like prejudices, and I can’t stand bullying.” Snape shifted in his seat. “I’ve been bullied throughout Muggle school, and in my eyes this automatic assumption that Slytherins are bad and on the paved road to Hell is just that. Prejudice and bullying. It would be one thing if people reacted the same were I to befriend a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, but no, it’s the fact that it’s a _Slytherin_ that’s somehow bad.” He caught himself, realising he’d raised his voice as he spoke and was now almost shouting at the Professor. Hunching back in his seat, he looked down. “Sorry, sir.”

There was an almost awkward silence for a while. Then Snape sighed. “No, there’s no need to apologise. I can see why you ended up in Gryffindor rather than Slytherin. While you possess a certain cunning, and have a hefty amount of ambition—no one could claim that wanting to make people look past your fame while at the same time using it to further your other goals isn’t ambitious—your goals in themselves are incredibly Light, and more befitting a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.” Harry shivered at the thought of ending up in Hufflepuff, and apparently Snape noticed the movement. “You’re not cold.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but Harry could sense the underlying question in it.

“No, sir. It’s just…” He sighed, but figured he may as well come clean. “Considering how my relatives raised me, I could just as easily have ended up in Hufflepuff, I guess. I did worry about that before the Sorting, that I’d have to spend another seven years being taken advantage of.”

Snape snorted. “The way your relatives treated you has nothing to do with how you are as a person. Yes, had you enjoyed working for them and not given a second thought about being recognised for your hard work, you would have fit into Hufflepuff. But even then, you’re a fool if you think you’d have been taken advantage of in there. You really should have worried more about ending up in any other House, had you had that personality. In Hufflepuff, you’d have been with your own kind, and they would have been as likely to take advantage of you as you would have been to take advantage of them. But a single Hufflepuff among Slytherins, for example? Bit by bit, you would have been pressured into doing all sorts of things for them, and they’d have thought nothing about taking the credit for any good thing you’d done while blaming all the failures on you.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Snape was right. How had he not seen that before? Even after Draco’s explanation of the relationship between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he still hadn’t thought about what it would mean to _be_ in Hufflepuff. Where everyone would be more focused on pulling their own weight because they’d be just the same as him. And him ending up in Hufflepuff… It wouldn’t at all have been the same as _Draco_ ending up there. Draco had the expectations of his father, who presumably _was_ a Slytherin, and ending up in Hufflepuff would have been an incredibly bad thing for him. But Harry? No one would have cared, would they? His relatives—not that he was going back to them, though if he’d had a Hufflepuff personality… Well, with what Snape had said, Harry might not have minded going back quite as much if he’d had—wouldn’t have known the difference or even cared to know a single thing about what happened at Hogwarts. Draco, of course, would maybe have been more inclined to take advantage of him through their friendship, or maybe ridiculed him for his misfortune, but… He swallowed. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t think of it that way.” And perhaps, a tiny voice whispered at the back of his head, if he’d ended up in Hufflepuff while still being the chameleon Draco had called him, he’d have ended up the leader of them all?

“Of course you didn’t. You’re eleven.” Harry shot a glare up at the Professor at those words, bristling at being thought of as incompetent or unintelligent just because of his age. “No need to look at me like that, Mr Potter. I merely meant that you don’t have the life experience yet to make that leap of understanding. You’re also too close to the situation, and it’s never easy to reflect on your own life without being influenced by your experiences.”

Harry chewed on the side of his lip. That was also true, and he really shouldn’t assume things without having all the clues. Then, remembering what he thought he’d figured out about forms of address, he said, “Professor? If you like, you can call me Harry.” He waited with bated breath for Snape’s response.

“Really, now? And should I not like?”

Of course he’d ask that. Harry sighed. “Then of course you don’t need to. I just… thought it might help. To keep things more separate, I mean.” The way McGonagall seemed to do it. Mr Potter when he was her pupil, and Harry when he was the child she’d rescued and taken in over the summer. An idea regarding Snape’s reluctance flashed through his mind, and he decided to go for it. “That doesn’t mean I’d assume I’d have the same permission in return, sir.” He could feel Snape’s eyes on him, and struggled not to fidget or squirm as the seconds crawled by. It had been foolish of him to offer, hadn’t it? He probably shouldn’t have said anything. But if he hadn’t offered, how would Snape know he was alright with it?

“Very well, _Harry_ ,” Snape finally said. “As you said, it may be that it affords me an aid to separate the two situations, and it may also provide you with a clue as to which we are in. It’s a sensible offer, but to prevent you from mistakenly blurting out the wrong name, I think it better to not offer the same courtesy in return.”

Harry swallowed, but nodded. He hadn’t expected it, and couldn’t really imagine addressing the Professor by his first name even if he did had permission to do so. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” Snape snorted with what to Harry sounded like a mix of humour and derision, and he briefly looked up. “Why is it you seem to think I shouldn’t thank you, Professor?” he asked.

“Perhaps because you seem to thank me for the most inane things, Po– Harry.”

Inane. Harry clenched his jaw in frustration, and he stared angrily at Snape’s knees. “Well, excuse me for having a slightly skewed perception of social values, _sir_ ,” he said, managing at least to stick to quiet acid rather than exploding outrage. “I’m quite certain the Dursleys would have been ecstatic had I failed to thank them for the privilege of using the bathroom, or had I thought I was somehow worth being called by name rather than ‘boy’ or ‘freak’ or ‘Potter’—the latter just to make a distinction from the _real_ family living at that address. I’m sorry it’s such a hardship for you to accept that I appreciate the concessions you do make to make me feel like I’m not just a waste of space.” He bit back a sarcastic offer to look for those cauldrons that apparently needed washing up, since that was something he at least could be _marginally_ trusted to do well. He’d already said too much, and he shouldn’t have lost his temper. Even if his loss of self-control probably meant the conversation was over and it was time to face his real detention, he could at least keep himself from being snarky about it. He steeled himself for the expected disappointment of being told off for his rudeness.

“Harry,” Snape said quietly, and something in his tone made Harry glance up again. The Professor’s face was even paler and more sallow than usual, and there was a furrow between his dark eyes that Harry hadn’t noticed before. Not that he’d looked at Snape’s face all that often. “I apologise,” Snape continued, and Harry blinked in surprise. “I should have known better than to say that.” His mouth twisted briefly into a grimace of distaste. “Of everyone here, I ought to understand the position you’re in. I apologise for allowing myself to get distracted by your name and parentage and thereby forgetting that you are not your father. Every little thing you reveal to me tells me that, and yet I seem to repeatedly forget myself.”

“I can hardly demand that you treat me a certain way, sir,” Harry said softly, looking down again. _Of everyone here?_   What had Snape meant by that?

“In public, no,” Snape confirmed. “But in private? You shouldn’t have to defend yourself against me. I apologise for not realising you may have had more reason to request my use of your first name.”

Harry shrugged. “How could you have known? It’s not really something I’ve advertised.” Snape was, in fact, the first human he’d told about the ‘freak’ part, and one of the first to find out about the Dursleys’ treatment of him, one of the few people he trusted wouldn’t _pity_ him for knowing about it. “And I’m a Gryffindor. We’re not exactly known for subtlety.”

A soft snort, little more than a forced exhale. “Now, it’s things like that that are causing me to doubt your belonging there, Mr… Pardon. Harry.”

Should he say something? Not the entire truth, perhaps, but part of it? He hesitated for a second, then smiled a little. “The Sorting Hat _may_ have been slightly torn between two options, sir. But I believe I ended up in the House that will work best for me.”

“The Hat very rarely makes mistakes,” Snape agreed. “However, I admit there is a certain relief in knowing I wasn’t entirely mistaken both in that you belong and that you don’t. I assume the other option was my own House?”

Harry nodded. Then he tilted his head thoughtfully. “If I may ask, sir, what did you mean when you said you of everyone here ought to understand?” Snape was quiet for a long time, and he felt certain no answer was forthcoming. He had just intended to attempt a topic change when Snape proved him wrong.

“My… childhood was not a happy one, either. My father, if that is what one wants to call him, resented everything I was and represented, and didn’t hesitate to remind me of that with brutal clarity. When I wasn’t… available, he took it out on my mother, instead.”

Harry felt slightly ill. It was one thing to know he was mistreated by his relatives, but at least they weren’t his _parents_. Snape, on the other hand… “I’m sorry.”

“I thought we had established you have nothing to do with my past.”

They had, hadn’t they? Their very first meeting, if Harry remembered correctly. He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wish it hadn’t happened, sir.”

“Yes, well, don’t we all,” Snape said with a sigh.

Harry thought about asking Snape needing to remind himself that Harry wasn’t his dad, but he was pretty certain he already knew why. Harry’s dad had taken Snape’s friend away from him, stolen the affections of the girl he liked. And with this new information, it wasn’t difficult to imagine Snape’s jealousy. Presumably, Harry’s dad had a nicer childhood than either of them had had, and to have to watch him with her… Once more the spoiled kid getting everything he wanted and leaving the outcast with nothing. It really was no wonder he said ‘Potter’ with such animosity. Harry could see himself, ten years down the line, saying ‘Dursley’ with the same tone, and he could only imagine how bad it would be if he’d be forced to go back to them every summer until he turned seventeen.

He was still looking for a suitable topic to take both their minds off of the mistreatment they’d suffered when Snape stood up and walked over to one of his bookshelves. He came back, and handed an envelope over to Harry. “Here.”

Harry glanced up at him curiously for a few moments before returning his attention to the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and Harry flipped it open. His breath caught as he reached in and pulled out the photographs, seeing the smiling face of a red- or brown-haired girl in the top one. The colours were slightly muted and yellowed, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the age of the photo or the technological standard at the time it was taken and developed.

“Is that…?” he whispered, his eyes burning with sudden tears.

“Lily,” Snape confirmed in a quiet voice. “I thought about your comment about never having even seen photos of her, and I arranged to have copies made of a few of mine. That one is from before we started at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s fingers were trembling as he reached out and gently brushed his fingers against the photo, as though he’d be able to feel the sensation of his mother’s hair under his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when the only thing he could feel was the matte surface of the old photo.

“Unfortunately, by the time I found out about animated photos I no longer had access to the negatives, so I couldn’t take advantage of that.” Harry merely nodded that he’d heard, and forced himself to switch to the next picture. He sucked in his breath, recognising the background as the room he’d spoken to Draco in. “That was taken two years later, on her birthday. She managed to convince a friend to take the photograph.” A brief pause, as Harry stared at his mum pulling a gangly, dark-haired and hook-nosed boy close to give him a hug, and then giggling silently at the face the boy pulled. “It’s one of the few pictures I have of the two of us together.”

Harry smiled, but didn’t take his attention from the pair in the photo. Despite the obvious Hogwarts surroundings, they weren’t in their school uniforms but in casual, even Muggle-looking clothes. They looked outdated, but then again he supposed it had been taken in… the early seventies, maybe? But while Lily’s clothes were neat and tidy, Snape’s clothes were slightly ragged, a patch or two visible despite being neatly done. Had it been Harry, he’d probably have gone for his uniform in place of those, but… That Snape hadn’t, didn’t that rather show just how much he trusted Harry’s mum—and the friend who’d taken the picture—not to laugh at him?

His lips twitched as he watched Snape, in return for the latest playful shove, grab a paper box off the ground—presumably having contained a birthday present—and plop it over Lily’s head, grinning in a way that would have looked out of place on the adult Snape but looked just right on this younger, softer version of the man. Lily threw the box away and shook with silent laughter, shoving the boy back over the armrest and onto the sofa before jumping after him, Snape just barely managing to roll down onto the floor in time to make her miss.

Harry blinked, before hurriedly swiping at his cheeks. He definitely didn’t want to risk dripping onto these photos. They just… They looked so _happy_. It was even harder to flip it to the bottom of the three pictures he was holding, but he forced himself to do it, knowing he’d be able to take it out and look at it later.

The third photo was… different. It looked to be taken from far away, and a few out-of-focus leaves in the foreground suggested the cameraman had been trying to not be seen. Lily was older in this picture, looking almost adult, and she was surrounded by four boys, none of which was Snape. Two dark-haired boys, one with a tousled mop similar to Harry’s own and one with slightly wavy, shoulder-long hair. One boy who reminded Harry a little of what Neville might look like when older, provided he didn’t lose the roundness of body he had now. The fourth was sitting at a slight distance, an open book in his hands, though he looked up from it every now and then to smile or say something at the others. Even as he looked, Lily laughed at something that had been said, and leaned forward to press a light kiss to the lips of the dark-haired boy that reminded Harry of himself.

“The end of our sixth year,” Snape said quietly. “That was the day I gave up on Lily forgiving me for the things I’d said to her. I don’t know why I kept it in the first place, but when I caught sight of it I assumed you’d appreciate seeing something of your father and his friends, as well.”

Had Harry been more like Ron, he might have said something about how stalking people wasn’t conductive to patching up a friendship, but even as he thought about it the words stuck in his throat. The picture, while at a first glance warm and friendly, also showed something so much more painful. Lily was very happy, yes, but she was happy _without Snape_. Snape had no place in the group, that much was obvious from what he could see and what Snape had told him, and that somehow made the picture so much more heart-wrenching. He sniffled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry my dad stole her away.” He trailed a finger along the edge of the photo.

“I’d already lost her,” Snape said, his voice somehow raw and naked despite its lack of emotion. “It was no one’s fault but my own. I just hadn’t realised it until that day.”

Harry looked up at him, vision slightly blurred by tears, but then remembered once again what the Being had said and lowered his gaze to Snape’s knees as he reached up to dab at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. “And you’re sure I can have these?”

“If you tell me why you won’t look at me.”

Harry sucked in his breath sharply as a knot of fear and dismay formed in his belly. Of course. Of course Snape would make it a bargain. But… it was fair, wasn’t it? Snape had revealed a lot about himself with these pictures, so to expect him to give it away for nothing was ridiculous. He nodded, but even after agreeing it took him a few seconds to find the right words to begin with. “I… It’s probably stupid, but… I heard from someone that you could read minds. And I don’t want anyone to see what’s in there. It’s mine. The only thing I’ve had for the last ten years that’s been completely mine, and I don’t want that to change.” It wasn’t the complete truth, but it wasn’t untrue either. And as what he’d said circled through his head once more, he saw another truth hidden in the words. What was in his head was Mine, and he never wanted that to change.

He waited for Snape to laugh at him, to say he was being an idiot. It didn’t happen. “I understand your caution, Harry,” he said instead. “Had I heard such a thing about someone when I was your age, I would have been unwilling to look them in the eye as well.” And here it came. Now Snape would say it was complete rubbish, that people couldn’t read minds. Or that even if some could, _he_ couldn’t. But Harry would rather trust the– “What you’re talking about is called Legilimency. While it’s true that eye contact facilitates this, a really skilled Legilimens is fully capable of reading your mind without it.”

What? Did that include Mr Twinkles? Harry needed to leave. He needed to get back to the safety of his bed so he could go to sleep and ask the Being about this. Provided he’d be let in. It hadn’t been a week yet, not until Sunday, and Harry had been told he’d be allowed inside once a week only. “But…” he argued.

“No, it’s a healthy precaution, Harry. Unfortunately, it’s also painfully obvious what you’re doing, even if the ‘why’ of it might not be as clear.” He sighed. “I am a Legilimens, that is true, but my true strength lies in Occlumency, which is the skill of defending your mind. For much the same reason that you’re unwilling to look at me: My mind is my own, and I do not wish anyone to see that which I do not allow them to.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. “Can I learn that?” he whispered. While he hated hiding things from the Being, perhaps he would be willing to share more if he knew Harry could keep them secret from everyone else?

Snape was quiet for a while. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “Normally I would say no, at least not for another five years or so. It does require a certain mindset and a maturity of mind that most children do not possess, but a desire or need to keep secrets, to keep your thoughts to yourself only, is one part of that mindset, which means you do stand a chance to acquire the skill in time. However…” He paused, as though to make sure he had Harry’s attention. He hadn’t needed to, as Harry was barely daring to breathe in case it’d keep him from hearing what Snape had to say. “However, the way I know how to teach this skill does involve me forcibly entering your mind and you working to defend yourself against the intrusion.”

Harry’s heart fell, even as his mind shied away from the image Snape had painted up. “I see,” he managed. He’d have to ask the Being, but probably not until he had a body of his own. He didn’t want to risk that such a thing would take energy the three of them didn’t have to spare. “I suppose that means I would need to trust my teacher completely.”

“Yes and no,” Snape countered. “While complete trust would mean it would be less painful to have your hidden thoughts read, it would also mean that you’d be less likely to focus as strongly on defending yourself.” He hesitated. “I do have a book on the theory of Occlumency. It also offers instructions for certain exercises to prime the mind for defence. If you like, you could spend your detentions—I gather I will need to hand out several of those to you over the year, as I assume you’d prefer them to losing points needlessly—reading that book and seeing what you can pick up from it.”

Thinking that over for a little while, Harry nodded. It would provide him with a foundation to build on when he spoke to the Being about it, and something to practice in between their weekly meetings. “I would appreciate that, sir. Thank you.”

Snape stood up and crossed over to the same bookshelf again. Without needing to search the titles, he slid one thin book out and returned, handing it to Harry, who slipped the photos back into their envelope and into his bag in order to accept it. “It must, of course, stay in this room, but if you like you can start reading it right now.”

Harry glanced up. “And you’re sure you wouldn’t consider it rude of me to do so?” He caught Snape’s smile just before he averted his eyes again.

“No. As you may have deduced, I am not the most social of men, and I find sufficient social stimulation by merely being in the same room as someone else, even if we are both doing something on our own and not necessarily interacting.”

“Oh.” That… sounded something like how it was to spend time with Neville or the Being. To just exist somewhere and know you weren’t in the way, weren’t needed to say something to motivate your existence in that room… It made something inside of Harry relax, knowing Snape appreciated that kind of companionship as well. “That sounds brilliant. Thank you, Professor.” Focusing on the book in his lap, he stroked the leather cover and the faded embossing of the title. While he was eager to take in the promised knowledge, the book looked old and potentially fragile, and he didn’t want to risk damaging it. If he did, he doubted Snape would ever let him read anything of his again. Slowly and carefully, he opened it up onto the first page and began to read.


End file.
